Rage
by DarkHeartInTheSky
Summary: S13 Hiatus Fix-it fic. Spoilers through S12 Finale: But Castiel wasn't dead. He was breathing-he was alive. Destiel. Updates on Thursdays.
1. Chapter 1

_Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight  
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,  
Rage, rage against the dying of the light._

 _And you, my father, there on the sad height,_  
 _Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray._  
 _Do not go gentle into that good night._  
 _Rage, rage against the dying of the light_

-Do not go gentle into that good night, Dylan Thomas

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Chapter One

Cas was breathing.

He was alive.

Dean's own breath caught in his throat, choking him, as realization flooded his veins, his mind lagging as it processed everything. He still wasn't sure he wasn't dreaming—he prayed he was dreaming, that this was all a horrible, horrible nightmare. It had to be. Like his Hell nightmares he still had occasionally. But, even though it felt like it, Dean knew he wasn't in Hell. He knew because he was still in one piece. He did a double take, twice, to make sure he hadn't lost his mind, and wasn't hallucinating, or dreaming. This was really happening.

He put his hand in front of Cas's nose, and felt it. It was shallow and barely tangible, but it was there—just a slight huff of air, brushing against Dean's skin, warm compared to the night breeze. Dean's throat was dry, his voice cracked. He inhaled deeply.

Cas was alive. Barely, but it was enough. Barely alive was better than dead.

"Sam!" He looked up, searching for his brother, and began to peel off his outer jacket. He rolled it into a ball, and pressed it against Cas's wound. "Sammy!"

Dean was torn between survival mode, and looking for Sam. His instinct, beaten into him from childhood, demanded he go after Sam, look after Sam, make sure Sam was okay. Put Sam first, always, forever.

But. . . But. . . Cas needed him too. Cas needed him here.

Cas was alive now, but he needed a hospital if he was going to stay that way—Dean could feel his hot blood through the jacket that was quickly staining a bright red color. Cas wasn't healing; they were going to have to do this the human way.

Dean's heart was slamming against his ribcage. "Hold on, buddy, hold on," he whispered, trying to ignore the burn in his eyes. "We're gonna get you help. You're gonna be all right. Just hold on." Cas just had to hold on, keep fighting, keep his heart beating. Dean turned back to the house. "SAMMY!"

When Sam came barreling out that front door, relief washed through Dean. Sam was here, and he was okay. They could fix this. Sam began to run towards Dean, and then he paused halfway, staring at Cas, at Dean, with wide, wet eyes. Dean could hear him panting.

"He's alive," Dean said, voice cracking. "But he's not healing. He. . . he needs an ambulance."

Sam didn't even say anything. He was reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone, hands shaking, breathing shallow and rapid.

Dean turned back to Cas. Sam was on it, Sam was safe, Dean could focus all on Cas now. He saw the awful scorch marks, took in the sight of the broken, maimed limbs tattooed onto the ground. He knew. . . he knew Cas's wings didn't work anymore, and he knew the angels' wings had been damaged in the Fall. He'd seen Gadreel's, and Benjamin's. But, he had never really given consideration to what Cas's wings must look like. He hadn't wanted to think about it. It was a selfish endeavor. In his mind, Cas's wings were still as awe inspiring as the day they first met. They were still giant, and powerful, still able to call about storms, pull lighting from the sky, and still able to make even Dean believe in angels.

He couldn't ignore it now, couldn't continue to live in blissful ignorance. Cas never talked about it. So long as Cas didn't talk about it, Dean could ignore it. Because if it was important, if it was hurting him, Cas would say something, right?

Sometimes Dean wished he could punch himself.

He could barely hear Sam in the background. Sam rattled off the address they were at.

"My brother. . . he's been stabbed," Sam said. Hysteria clawed at his throat. "In the chest. . . He's unconscious, but breathing. . ." Sam was pacing, squishing mud underneath his boots. Dean winced, and ground his teeth together. That sound, coupled with Cas's rushing blood, made his stomach clench. They were too similar.

Dean kept pressing down, staunching the wound as best he could. He could feel it beneath him, though. Cas's already shallow breathing was becoming even shallower, more erratic. His lips were beginning to turn blue, his face pale—he wasn't getting enough oxygen.

Dean swallowed. He didn't have to think about it. He inhaled, then leaned forward. He pressed his lips to Cas's, and tried to ignore the stillness he felt. Tried to ignore the taste of blood and ash. He breathed in with all his might, as deeply as he could, until his chest began to ache, and he tried to focus on the task at hand: Breathe for Cas. Cas couldn't do it himself, but Dean could do it for him. The rest of the world faded away. This was the only thing that mattered. This was the most important thing in the World. He was a soldier, first and foremost, and he never backed away from a battle.

This was just another battle. Dean once faced off with the Devil and won. He talked God's sister out of destroying the World. This, this was nothing compared to that. He could do this. He had to do this.

He pulled Cas's chin down to open his airway more. Dean pressed his lips again, and breathed everything he had into Cas.

 _This isn't what I thought our first kiss would be like_.

He pushed down those intrusive thoughts. They were toxic. They weren't going to help Cas right now. Cas was counting on him, Cas _needed_ him, and Dean would not let him down. Not this time. Not again. He inhaled again, and pushed air into Cas's lungs, until he could see Cas's chest inflate.

Sam was beside him, on his knees. "The ambulance is coming," he said.

Dean nodded, but gave no other response. He had a mission, and he had to keep to it. Nothing else mattered. This was the most important mission he'd ever been on. He had to breathe for Cas, keep him alive, keep his heart beating.

He wasn't sure how long he stayed like that, repeating those motions over and over again. He did it until it became routine, like it was the only thing he'd ever done. The rest of the world vanished, and this mission became his singular focus.

Eventually, he heard the ambulance siren. It grew louder and louder until it was deafening. It broke through the void of Dean's blood pounding in his ears, his breath rattling in his chest. The lights came into his peripheral, blotches of reds and blues that distorted everything, but Dean still kept at it. He kept breathing for Cas, kept his lips brushing Cas's. Sam was speaking to the paramedics. Dean heard their voices, but not their words—and then someone was pulling him away. Roughly, by the shoulders, he was pulled backwards.

"No!" Dean shouted, twisting, fighting. "No, get off! Let go of me!"

Cas needed him, Cas needed him, Cas _needed_ him.

The hands let go, having succeeded in pulling Dean away, leaving him in the mud. It ran up his sides and sank through his shirt, chilling him to the bones. Dean wasn't sure what had made him so weak—damn it, he wasn't supposed to get overpowered by a person.

Dean was left just a few feet away, and he saw the paramedics kneeled in front of Cas, speaking loudly. A gurney was right beside them, lowered all the way to the ground. Dean was stock still, frozen like a statue, as they ran their fingers over and under Cas, gently over his wound. They pulled off Dean's jacket, now all red with just tiny specks of the original green peeking through, before they pressed it back—and then they were pulling him over to the gurney, while Sam was speaking, explaining.

"About twenty minutes ago," Sam said.

Dean swallowed. Had it really been twenty minutes? It seemed like an eternity ago. Twenty minutes was a long time for an ambulance to show up, wasn't it? Of course Cas had to pick a spot in the middle of goddamn nowhere to hide. A spot where help was miles away. A spot that took Dean days to drive to.

Dean kept watching the male paramedic.

He wanted to go back to Cas, but he couldn't move his bones.

"And the assailant?" the female paramedic asked. They loaded Cas into the back. The male paramedic had the blue bag over Cas's face and was squeezing it rapidly.

"Gone," Sam said, voice cracking. He looked briefly into the ambulance, and shook. His knees buckled. "Please, you have to help him."

"We'll do everything we can, sir," she said

Dean shook his head. He tried to speak, but he couldn't form the words. That wasn't enough. They needed to save Cas, make him better—Dean wouldn't accept anything less. He pushed himself to his feet. His legs trembled. His muscles felt like jelly.

The male paramedic was still squeezing the blue oxygen bag. It crinkled like plastic every time.

Then, the female paramedic hopped back into the ambulance and she shut the door, cutting off his view of Cas. He only had sight of the bright red cross painted onto the back. The paint was chipped in some places, rusted in others.

Something in Dean's brain clicked.

"No!" he said, and he ran, sending shockwaves up his bones. The ambulance began to move, kicking up mud as the wheels turned, and it was moving away. "No!" It was going to leave without him. It couldn't leave without him—he had to be there, Cas needed him, Cas needed him there—

Sam's arms were around him, and Dean's feet were off the ground.

"Let me go, Sam!" he growled. The ambulance siren was screaming, the lights popping in the blackness—and then it turned a corner. "No!" He kicked his legs wildly, and dug his nails into the meat of Sam's arms. Sam groaned, but his grip only tightened, locking his fingers across Dean's chest.

"Put me down, Sam!" Dean jerked his head back and smashed it against Sam's neck. Sam swore, but his grip never lessened.

Hot tears raced down Dean's fact. Salt rested on his lips, and snot began to drip from his nose. He couldn't see the flashing lights anymore, and the siren grew fainter and fainter, and after a few seconds, Dean couldn't hear it at all.

His muscles turned to jelly, the fight leaving him in one giant exhalation.

Sam put him gently on the ground, and Dean didn't have the strength to hold himself upright. He curled onto the wet, cold ground and cried, sobs ravaging his chest, shudders shaking each one of his bones. Sam kneeled beside him.

"He's gonna be okay, Dean," Sam said softly. "He's _alive_ , he's in good hands, he's gonna be okay." Sam swallowed, his adam's apple bobbing all the way down his throat. He looked behind him, at where Cas had just lay—the spot right above, where there was nothing but night air. "Mom's gone," he said.

Dean cried harder. He dug his nails into the dirt. Why? Why? Why couldn't they ever catch a break? Why couldn't they be happy more than five minutes before some shitstorm came in and blew it all away? Mom was trapped in some bad Mad Max remake, with Lucifer, and the devil's baby was born—

Dean swallowed, gulping for air. He looked back at the house.

"Where is it?" he asked, barely audible. His throat was raw.

Sam paused. "Gone," he said. "I saw it—in the nursery, but it disappeared. Dean. . . it's. . . it's not a baby. It was full grown."

Dean closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. He held it for a moment, and felt like his lungs would burst. He slowly pushed himself to a sitting position. It was difficult. He arms trembled the entire time, almost not enough to support his weight. He couldn't get the scream of the siren out of his head, couldn't wash the taste of ash and blood off his lips. Lead was wrapped around his heart, dragging it down into the pit of his stomach. There was a hole in his soul, a black hole that was sucking in everything, leaving him feeling numb.

"Come on," Sam said. He stuck out his hand. Dean stared at it, and time seemed to go on forever, before he found the strength inside him to reach out. Sam's grip was warm and tight. He pulled Dean to his feet. Dean's knees buckled, but Sam kept him steady. He put his other hand on Dean's opposite shoulder.

Sam's eyes were glassy and red-rimmed.

"What do we do now?" Dean asked. He looked down the road where the ambulance had vanished. His feet still wanted to race down that beaten path. He'd follow it to the ends of the Earth, if he had to. Cas was in there. Cas needed him.

Sam seemed to be reading his mind. "There's not anything we can do for Cas right now," he said. "The Nephilim is gone. . . Kelly. . . she's dead."

Dean nodded. They had been expecting that, partially at least. Birthing Lucifer's kid wasn't something that could probably be survivable. Dean felt bad for her. He genuinely did. She got a raw deal—her boyfriend gets possessed by Satan, and she gets knocked up with a creature that's the first of its kind: an archangel/human hybrid. She hadn't deserved that. Dean really had hoped they could have saved her.

Dean sniffed. His lip trembled.

Who was he kidding? He couldn't save anyone. Not his brother, not his Mom, not Cas. What was he even thinking, that he could save Lucifer's baby mama? He couldn't even save himself.

Kelly hadn't deserved that.

He understood the question in Sam's eyes. "I think we should bury her," he said.

Sam looked at him in confusion. "You're not worried about. . . vengeful spirits?"

Dean swallowed. That was always a risk in their lives. That's why hunters cremated their dead. Spirits were tied to their bones.

But, Dean couldn't explain it. There was so much wrong with this situation. Part of him wanted to give Kelly's body to her family—they deserved their closure. But another part of him, something deep in whatever was left of his soul, felt burying her was right.

"I'm not worried," he said.

Sam looked at him dubiously. "You sure you're up for digging a grave?"

Dean wasn't. Every part of him hurt. But it needed to be done. And he needed to be doing something.

"The Nephilim's gone, Mom. . ." Dean didn't even want to think about Mom yet. So many worse case scenarios were coursing through his head. Dean pushed that thought away. He had to deal with one crisis at a time, with the ones he could actually do something about first. "And Cas. . . he's with people who can help him. This. . . this we can do. It's what we have to do."

Sam paused for a moment, then nodded.

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They always kept shovels in the trunk of the Impala, along with their other weaponry. Dean pulled out the two shovels while Sam brought down Kelly's body, wrapped in a bedsheet. Sam laid her carefully on the ground. Dean stared at the white sheet. There was a body underneath them. One they were going to bury. But Dean knew who they were burying, and felt a hot pang of guilt, because he was grateful about who they _weren't_ burying.

Yet, at least.

Dean bit his lip. He couldn't think about that now. He pushed it all out of his mind—Cas and Mom, alternative universes and if they were okay or not—to focus on the task at hand.

He broke ground first.

It was slow, monotonous work. But it gave Dean a singular focus. He and Sam didn't speak. They worked as fast as they could, just the sound of sifting dirt, and their laborious breathing. The sun began to rise, straight into Dean's eyes.

By the time they were finished, they were both drenched in sweat, and Dean hurt worse than he ever had before. They gently put Kelly into the ground, and began to fill the dirt back in. When they put the last of the dirt in, when Kelly's grave was complete, Dean sighed. He looked behind him, to where the wing marks were scorched on the ground, like twisted tattoos.

His task finished, Dean know couldn't do anything but panic and worry. His stomach was empty, but nausea still churned in his gut, bile burned at the back of his throat. He had been able to put it all out of his mind for a while. For long enough to finish giving Kelly a proper burial—it was the only thing he could actually do something about, and now it was done.

Sam was leaning against the shovel handle, panting. Oranges danced across his face, making the sheen of sweat on his forehead shine.

"Let's go," Dean said. He stared at the dirt mound, and cursed God. "Cas needs us."

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Sam drove. He knew what hospital Cas had been taken to from speaking to the paramedic, but also, Dean didn't think he could be trusted to drive. Normally driving cleared his mind, but his anxiety had skyrocketed. He was shaking, and he couldn't stop. The hair on his arms and nape of neck were ramrod straight. There was a constant burn behind his eyes.

They didn't speak. Dean looked out the window, watched the passing scenery turn to a blur of greens and blues, as the sun continued to ascend in the sky.

What the hell were they going to do? The Nephilim was out there somewhere, on the loose, with unimaginable power at its fingertips. Mom was trapped somewhere Dean literally could not go-an entire new world. Crowley and Rowena were dead. And Cas—

Dean didn't even know what state Cas was in. Everything had happened all so fast—his eyes glowed that bright white, and his wings had burned into the ground, and there had been so, so much blood—

But he was still breathing. His heart had still been beating. He'd been alive. He took an angel blade to the chest, and lived.

Dean didn't know what the hell had happened.

He had to see Cas as soon as possible.

The car drive seemed to take forever, even though _Sam_ was speeding—Mister Goody Two shoes. Sam's fingers were white knuckling the steering wheel. His phone GPS was rattling off directions in its monotonous, robotic voice. Sam took the turns too fast, and definitely didn't wait three full seconds at stop signs before crossing through the intersection.

They made it to the hospital in just under half an hour. Dean looked at the clock. It was just after eight in the morning. He had no idea how much time had passed between now and that moment when that blade pierced Cas's chest, and everything went from double shit to quadruple shit. It seemed like forever ago. Dean's mind was still in a bit of a fugue. It almost felt like he wasn't really in control of his body.

Sam pulled into a parking space catawampus, but Dean didn't care. The only spot Sam could find was in the very back, at least two hundred yards away from the Emergency Room entrance.

As soon as Sam set the gear shift, Dean was out of the car, and racing.

"Dean!" Sam called, but Dean kept running. Each step was a step closer to Cas.

He burst into the entrance, Sam at his heels. The air conditioning hit him like a slap in the face, and Dean took in the sight in front of him. Overworked nurses, exhausted loved ones, sick children curled into their mother's neck. The information desk was right in the center of it all, doctors and nurses scattering around it. Gargled nonsense came over the PA system, speaking in codes, calling for doctors.

Suddenly, Dean couldn't move. His feet were glued to the tiled floor. Sam pushed past him and went to the information station.

"My brother was brought in here," Sam said, the panic returning to his voice.

Dean swallowed. Sam's words rang in his head. _Brother_.

Cas was their family. He had been for years. Dean wasn't sure when Cas became something more than reluctant ally, or Dean's best friend, and after that, becoming—becoming-

The change had been gradual, subtle—but Cas was a part of Dean's life now. Somehow, the nerdy guy with wings shoved his way into Dean's heart, and nestled right next to Sam; had become as important to Dean as Sam. And Dean knew—he knew—that he didn't always convey the sentiment to Cas. But Cas had to know, right? Cas was a royal dumbass, but he was smart. Like, super smart. Smarter than Dean. He knew like, every language every spoken, and quantum physics, and all sort of complicated spell work. He was smart. Cas had to know.

Right?

Dean's throat swelled with emotion.

Maybe. . . maybe Cas didn't know. Cas was worse than Dean at the whole. . . _feelings_ , thing.

Fuck.

When Cas was all better—because he would be all better, he had to be—Dean would tell him. He would make sure Cas understood, loud and clear. Because Cas would be better. He would. He'd come back from worse.

Dean finally managed to move his legs, and walk up to the desk next to same. Sam was rattling off all the information he could, while the nurse typed everything into a computer.

"I don't how long ago," Sam said, running his hands through his hair. Dean noticed Sam still had tear tracks on his face, shining in the harsh overhead light. "He was—he was the stabbing—"

Something about the word made the nurse's face drain. She stopped typing for a moment. Dean could read her micro-expression, and a thousand things seemed to flash on her face in an instant before she schooled it back into her professional indifference. Her eyes lingered on them for an uncomfortable amount of time, and she swallowed thickly.

"Oh," she said. Her voice betrayed her expression. "He's still in surgery."

Dean wasn't sure why he was surprised. Of course Cas would need surgery—he had two holes in his chest.

But, Cas shouldn't _need_ surgery. He was an angel. He should be healing. He'd been hurt by angel blades before, and healed up just fine. Not even a scar was left behind.

The images of those awful, black impression marks were scored into his mind.

The nurse continued speaking to Sam. No, she didn't have an estimate for when Cas would be out. Yes, he was getting the best care possible. Dr. Whoever was the best surgeon in the state. The words were meaningless to Dean.

The nurse smiled at them. It was strained. She was worried.

"I'll let the doctor know you're here," she said. "And I'll update you as soon as I have news. Take a seat, please."

Sam thanked her. Dean felt like the ocean was roaring in his ears. Sam grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him towards a chair. Sam forced Dean to sit down. The chair was uncomfortable. Hard, at an exact ninety degree angle. It creaked with very little movement. There was a clock on the wall across from him, an old style analog. Dean watched the second hand. It seemed to stop and linger in one spot for an elongated movement. It was just a little after eight am.

Sam sat next to him. The chair was too short for him—his knees were practically pushed into his chest. Dean couldn't look at him directly. Just out of the corner of his eye.

There was a television playing a children's cartoon. It was something stupid—a show where different animal friends worked together to solve problems. There was a turtle, and a duck, and Guinea pig and they _sang_.

The sick children were invested, interrupting the godawful singing with the occasional thick, wet cough that made Dean wince in sympathy. Their mothers wouldn't stop staring at Dean and Sam.

The clock ticked by, slowly. Nurses and doctors entered and exited. Patients were called back, more came in. Seats were filled, and the air was thick and uncomfortable with illness.

There was a goddamn marathon of that stupid animal show. He soon had the stupid theme song stuck in his head—something stupid, and childish, about teamwork, and overcoming one's weaknesses by combining individual strengths.

And at the end of the episode, they solved their problem, saved whoever it was they went out to save, and got to go back home. And no one was hurt, or dead, or dying, or trapped in another dimension with Lucifer, in an Apocalyptic wasteland that Dean could never, ever hope reach.

Dean hated them.

Trapped in that sterile, white room was like being trapped in Hell again. Time moved like it did in Hell, dragging on and on, single minutes lasting eternity. Dean began to play a game with himself, where he refused to look at the clock until he was positive a certain amount of time had passed. Dean set it for twenty minutes. He wouldn't look at the clock until twenty minutes had passed, and he would be so certain that it had been twenty minutes, and he would look at the clock—only to be devastated to learn that it had maybe only been two or three minutes.

Eventually, finally. . . finally, a doctor came out, dressed in scrubs, the scrub cap still on his head. He called for the Wilson family, because Sam thankfully still had enough sense in him not to give their real names. Dean and Sam jumped to their feet like they were filled with springs instead of bone.

"That's us," Sam said. Dean was still struggling to find his voice. "We're his brothers. Is he okay?"

The doctor, an older, African-American man, had deep lines in his faces, ones born of worry and stress, sleepless nights, and on-call shifts. He introduced himself as Dr. Whitaker. He had a firm handshake.

"Why don't we go somewhere more private to talk?" he said.


	2. Chapter 2

_**AN: So, I originally posted Chapter 1 of this story on AO3 on May 25, but I forgot to post it to this platform until yesterday. So lucky you guys! You get two chapters in two days! Expect updates on Thursdays from here on out :) and remember to review, pretty please? I got a bunch of subscriptions from chapter 1, but only a a few reviews.**_

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 _How sick—to wait—in any place—but thine_

 _I knew last night—when someone tried to twine_

 _Thinking—perhaps—that I looked tired—or alone—_

 _Or breaking—almost—with an unspoken pain-_

-How Sick—to Wait—in Any Place—but Thine, Emily Dickinson

Chapter Two

Dean hated hospitals. They were just sterile, suffocating catacombs. Vast, empty spaces that sucked in any living soul they could, and swallowed them whole. Dean may not be able to see them, but he knew there were reapers lingering—around every corner, by bedsides, standing just behind worried loved ones, hours into an all night vigil—waiting to take souls to Heaven.

He only had one good memory of being in a hospital—and it was when Sammy was born. Dad had held him so Dean could peer into the bassinet and stare at the sleeping bundle, wrapped like a burrito in a soft blue blanket, fussing.

Ever since then, hospitals were places of death. Doctors were nothing but bad news, and when this man, Dr. Whitaker, said to follow him, to go with him to talk somewhere more private, Dean's heart nearly combusted.

Dr. Whitaker led them down a hallway, away from the waiting room. The hallway seemed endless. White walls, white ceilings, white lights, coupled with the white coats the doctors wore. It was too much for Dean, too bright.

Dr. Whitaker stopped at the door deep at the end of the hallway. It was a small office, cramped, with a giant desk that had nothing on it but an old desktop computer. He closed the door behind him.

"What happened?" Sam asked, sinking down into the chair immediately. Dean stood awkwardly by the door. Dr. Whitaker stared at him for a long moment, and then turned to Sam.

"Your brother—"

"Castiel," Sam provided.

Dr. Whitaker nodded. "Castiel is in the ICU right now. His left lung collapsed in the ambulance ride. We've gotten that fixed, and he's going to be under strict observation for the next few weeks while that heals."

Dean swallowed.

Dr. Whitaker reached to his right, and pulled out an orange envelope. He opened it and drew out a X-Ray sheet. He held it up, reflecting it against the bright overhead lights.

"He's very lucky," Dr. Whitaker said. "Another half an inch this way, and it would have gone right through his heart."

Dean chewed on his lip. Lucky didn't feel like the right word. For him, lucky would mean his family wasn't falling apart at the seams. Lucky would mean everyone was accounted for and safe. His mind was still in a bit of a tailspin. There were too many things to worry about at once. His nerves were frayed at the seams, pulled and strung along like twine.

Dean listened as Dr. Whitaker kept speaking. They patched Cas's lung up, and got the two wounds sutured up, and cleaned him up. But there was something he wasn't telling them. Dean could tell. His eyes were shifting. He wasn't making eye contact with Sam. He kept staring at his cuticles, and he was avoiding answering Sam's most crucial question—how was Cas?

Dean's skin itched, like bugs were crawling underneath. He could get the details later. The details weren't what was important right now.

"Is he okay?" Dean snapped, speaking for the first time in hours. His voice cracked. Dean had waited, and waited. He left Cas in the hands of people who could help him, do more for him than Dean could have ever hoped to do himself—and now he was tired, bone deep exhausted. His heart ached. So many things were out of his control, but this—this was back in his control, this was something he could do. He needed to see Cas.

Dr. Whitaker jumped at Dean's intonation. He sighed.

"He lost a lot of blood, and was without proper oxygen for several minutes. As a result, he's fallen into a coma." Dr. Whitaker said, staring deep at Dean.

Dean's bones rattled under his skin. "He's alive, though. Right?"

Dr. Whitaker nodded once, slowly. "He is."

Dean swallowed. "Then he'll be okay."

Cas had come back from worse. Hell, he'd even be comatose before, and he healed up and came back swinging.

Dr. Whitaker stared at Dean dubiously, but Dean brushed it off. This guy didn't know Cas. He didn't know anything about Cas. Not one damn thing. Cas would be okay.

Cas _had_ to be okay.

"I want to see him," Dean said, not caring about the catch in his voice. He needed to see Cas. He needed to get the awful images out of his head, of Cas bleeding on the ground.

Dr. Whitaker's eyes brushed over him, and suddenly Dean felt very self-conscious. He looked down at himself and grimaced, wondering how he hadn't noticed that he was caked in stale sweat and mud. His arms were stained red halfway to his elbow.

Oh.

So that's why the women in the waiting room kept staring at him. Why the nurse had looked stricken.

He was used to people staring at him, especially when he was out with Sam. They were tall, mean looking, and usually covered in some sort of substance or other, but never before had anyone ever stared at Dean and made him feel _dirty_ , skin to soul.

"Not like that you can't," Dr. Whitaker said. "You'll break sterilization." He sighed. "Boys, I know this is difficult. I know you want to see your brother and help, but honestly, the best thing you can do to help Castiel is to help yourselves. Go home. Take a shower. Get something hot to eat. We've got things covered here."

Dean scoffed. That was not happening. Dean was not leaving. He was not going to leave Cas. It didn't matter who he needed to sneak past, or knock out. Cas needed him. Cas needed him there, he needed to know that Dean was there, that Sam was there, that he was going to be okay—Dean and Sam were going to take care of him. And if this doctor wasn't going to take them to Cas, then Dean was just going to have to track Cas down. He tracked Cas down in freakin' Purgatory, he could find Cas in a shitty, suffocating hospital.

"We're not leaving," Dean said. His voice was hoarse, but he packed into every shred of emotion and force he could muster, every cell in his body vibrating with grief and anxiety.

Dr. Whitaker sighed. He pinched the bridge of his nose and was silent for several, long moments. Finally, he looked Dean in the eye. Dean watched his resolve crack. "Fine. I'll make a deal with you, boy. You too, Skyscraper. I'll let you use the employee showers. There's antibacterial soap in there. Use it, and use it good—especially you," he said with a pointed glance at Dean's arms. "Then I'll let you in to see Castiel."

"Thank you," Sam said, at the same time Dean exhaled deeply, until he was sure all the air had been expelled from his body.

"Don't mention it," Dr. Whitaker said, standing up. "Seriously. Don't. Mention. It."

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.

The soap didn't smell. It itched as Dean lathered it on. It was thick and orange and slimy, but it cut through the mud and blood like a hot knife. Dean kept his head down and watched as it all ran down the drain in a slow, circular motion. The water was lukewarm.

He only stayed in for as long as needed to. Not a second longer. The moment that water began to run clear, and the last of the soap was gone, Dean turned the water off and got out. The air conditioning kicked on, causing goosebumps to rise down Dean's spine.

Dr. Whitaker left Dean with a bag to put his dirty clothes in, and a pair of aged scrubs. Dean felt weird putting the scrubs on, but he wasn't going to leave this place until he saw Cas, not even to take a real, hot shower and change into clean, normal clothes.

Dean didn't just have to wear scrubs. He had to wear special boots, too, and a paper hat, covering all of his hair. Dean left the shower room, and Sam was waiting for him the hall, dressed the same way. His pants were too short, barely covering his knees, and he had to pull his hair up to get it all under the hat.

Dr. Whitaker was waiting, too, back braced against the wall. He did not look happy. "All right, boys," he said. "Follow me."

The walk to Cas's room was longer than the walk to Dr. Whitaker's office. He led them down a twisted hallway, sectioned off from the rest of the building. There was a special door that barricaded the ICU, that could only be opened with a key card.

The ICU was shaped like a square, with rows of rooms on every side, and the nurse's station right in the center. The sound of machinery was everywhere; monotonous beeps, a weird pushing noise Dean couldn't figure out. There was a monitor with the same room numbers, and a bunch of other numbers Dean figured out were various vital signs. There was a white board with the list of patient room numbers and names. Dean saw _Wilson_ written there in bright pink. Dean's stomach churned.

Dr. Whitaker stopped outside a door on the right side of the square. He didn't say anything as he opened the door, and let Sam and Dean inside. Dean paused for a long second, a million things going through his mind at once—and then the fear, and the anxiety broke, and he stepped over that threshold.

Cas was on the bed, curled on his side facing the door. His eyes were closed. There were a dozen different tubes attached to him. Heart monitors, and IVs, and blood pressure cuffs, and catheters that snaked down to a Foley bag—but the worst was the giant tube protruding from Cas's mouth, attached to a massive machine that seemed to take up half the room. It was loud, and clunky—the source of that pushing noise Dean had earlier. Every few seconds, there was a loud puff of air.

Cas was pale, and his hair was sticking up in every direction. He was in a hospital gown, and Dean could see a peek of thick bandages peeping up past the collar.

Dean stepped inside further, as though he were trapped in a trance. The safety bars of the bed were up. Dean walked up to the bed, and gripped onto the metal, squeezing it as hard as he could, until his hand began to ache. Sam's heavy footsteps followed behind.

Coma.

Dean muttered the word, testing in on his lips. Cas had been comatose before. There was that time he angel banished himself—Cas had phoned him then, weeks later, and said the doctors thought he was brain dead, but he woke up from that. And after that, after he took on Sam's madness, he fell into another coma, and he woke up after just fine.

Well, maybe not _fine_ per se, but he woke up.

Cas would wake up from this too. He had too.

Dean looked up at the heart monitor. Cas's heart rate was at fifty beats per minute. It was on the low side, but it was steady, at least. And as long as Cas kept that up, everything would be fine. Cas just had to keep that heart beating.

Dean relived the last few hours in his mind—seeing Cas stumble out of that portal, that angel blade piercing through his chest, that awful, blue light, and the even more awful sight of scorched wings on the ground.

He shivered and had to force himself to calm down. Cas was alive. Somehow, he was alive. He was fighting. He was banged up pretty bad, but that didn't matter because he was alive. He'd pull through. He always did.

Cas asked Dean to have faith in him. . . Dean would. He did.

"Hey, Cas," he said softly.

Sam was behind him, his presence heavy like a ghost's.

Dr. Whitaker came in, and walked to the foot of Cas's bed.

"We fixed the collapsed lung," he explained, "but right now, his body is just too weak to breathe on its own. In situations like this, it's less stressful on the body to keep him on a ventilator than for him to try and breathe naturally."

Dean wanted to reach out and touch Cas—his hand, or shoulder, or a soft brush against the forehead; the same way Cas always touched him, to heal, or in a show of solidarity—but there were so many wires, and important looking machinery, he was afraid of disturbing something. He kept his hand right where it was, clenching the metal bar.

"When do you think he'll wake up?" Dean asked.

Sam and Dr. Whitaker both were very silent. Tension covered the room like a thick, too hot blanket. Several second ticked by, and Dean got no answer. He turned to face Dr. Whitaker, who was assessing Dean with a long, calculated look. Dean swallowed, eyes drifting back and forth between him and Cas.

"That," Dr. Whitaker said eventually, slowly, "is going to be up to him. These things cannot be quantified. But," Dr. Whitaker inhaled deeply, and took a long look at Cas. Dean wondered what he saw. "But, the human spirit is a remarkable thing. There is nothing stronger in the universe than a determined will. It has overcome many obstacles, and healed from traumas that should be deadly."

Human.

It was the first time since this entire, horrible debacle began that Dean thought the word, and of the weight it carried. Cas was alive because he was human. Not an angel anymore. And Dean thought of the last time Cas was human, and what a miserable experience that been for Cas. It was just another time that Cas needed him, and Dean betrayed him. Kicked him out in the cold, with nowhere to go, cutting off all contact, with angels hunting him up, down, and sideways. He knew Cas hated being human.

But Dean didn't care if Cas was human or angel. He would take Cas in any form. He'd take Cas as a toad. What he was didn't matter. Cas mattered. And Cas may have hated being human, but he persevered nonetheless. He survived, and managed, and did it all on his own. Dean thought on Dr. Whitaker's words.

Dean nodded. Yeah, damn right. Cas was a tough son of a bitch. The Grim Reaper would have to fight Cas tooth and nail, and even then, Cas was going to be swinging, kicking, fighting, snarling—he wasn't going down without a fight, and he was going to come out on top. Cas was a fighter, born and bred, and he was going to win. He was beat to Hell, but he'd pull through. He always did. Cas never gave up, and he was tough as nails—tougher than Lucifer could ever give Cas credit for, and stubborn as a mule. Too stubborn to die.

Dr. Whitaker coughed. He reached down and pulled up a large, plastic bag from underneath Cas's bed. In sharpie was written _Personal Effects._

"Here," Dr. Whitaker said. "Hang onto that." Dean took the bag, and held onto it like a lifeline. "I'll leave you boys alone for a moment."

Dr. Whitaker left. For a moment, the only sound was the pushing of the ventilator.

Sam moved to sit in one of the chairs by the far wall. His shoulders were taut.

Dean sat next to him, and opened the plastic bag. He shifted through the items inside. Cas's clothes, torn and still bloody, his shoes, wallet—and something else.

Dean's throat tightened.

It was wrapped separately in a plastic bag. It looked insignificant, separated from the rest, bundled up and buried underneath all that blood and mud and cloth. Dean thumbed it through the plastic. The sharpie was smudged, but the tape was still in good condition. No cracks or scratches anywhere. But there was red stain smeared down near the bottom, close to the wheels. A heavy lump formed in Dean's throat. Through the plastic, he thumbed the blood stain, and wondered if it still played.

"What's that?" Sam asked, leaning over.

Heat flushed Dean's face. His tongue was fat in his mouth, as though it had grown twice its size in under a second. He fought against the urge to twist away from Sam, and hold the tape close to his chest, his heart. It. . . it wasn't a secret. But it was special. It was a culmination of hours' worth of work, hours staying up late, waiting by the radio, fiddling with the dials, and volume, and bass mixer, trying to make it perfect. Dean lost count of how many times he had to erase the tape and start over because it wasn't perfect. The audio popped, or it wasn't loud enough, or there was an awkward, dilated pause between songs, or because Dean changed his mind at the last minute and wanted to switch out songs.

And the tape had also been his apology. His pathetic attempt at an apology. For giving Cas the cold shoulder, for bitching at him about the Billie situation—for everything. It was a pathetic attempt to build a bridge over the rift that had grown between him and Cas over the last several years that they never seemed to be able to mend. They never had the time.

Cas had this on him. Dean imagined Cas keeping it in his inner coat pocket, close to his heart, bringing it with him everywhere. He looked up to Cas, curled on the bed, looking so small.

Sam was still waiting for an answer. Dean inhaled shakily.

"It's. . . it's stupid," he said. He licked his lips. He felt like a little girl. Sam's gaze on him was nonjudgmental, but it was intrusive. Not the same way Cas's gaze was, though. With Dr. Whitaker, and Sam, it was like Dean was a mystery they were trying to solve. When Cas stared, it was like he had already figured Dean out.

He remembered handing the tape to Cas, this piece of his heart, this conduit for all the words he was too cowardly to ever say. _For the road_ , he told Cas instead, and tried not to think about how lonely Cas must be, driving day in and day out, following leads to their bare bones only for them to sizzle out to dead ends. The tape had been a spur of a moment idea, the result of hours' worth of Dean lying in his bed, sick with insomnia and anxiety, missing Mom and Cas, and thinking about how Cas couldn't just tune into Angel Radio anymore, because he was cut off from his dick family that he still tried to make peace with. That dick family that he still plead some loyalty to. And god, Cas must be so lonely, must be going mad in the silence—Dean made it for him to fill that silence, and Cas kept it close to his heart. When Dean offered, Cas took it slowly, gently, shyly, a shadow of a smile dancing across his face, as he stared at it inquisitively. He didn't know what it meant, and Dean was part thankful, and part devastated, but Cas took it, and said "Thank you, Dean," and then he left, and Dean was still left sick with insomnia, that bold, _I love you_ still echoing in his head. Those three words he'd never been able to say to Cas explicitly.

Dean should have made him stay.

Sam was still waiting patiently, his kind eyes never wavering, never pushing.

Dean shuddered. "It's uh, something I gave him." His muscles slowly uncoiled. He thought about it for two seconds, and then he slowly passed it to Sam, who took it with a feather-light touch.

Dean waited with bated breath for Sam's response. Cas didn't know what it meant—the nuance of it all, but Sam did. Sam knew everything.

Sam was quiet. The ventilator pushed, and pulled, and pushed, and pulled. He glanced up to Cas. Dean's eyes couldn't help but follow. The heart monitor was steady. That little green line kept climbing mountains, diving and rising, and diving, and rising, steady, steady, steady, in tune with the push and pull.

"That's nice of you," Sam said. "That's. . . wow."

Dean snorted. It was a broken thing. He felt like he finally lost his mind.

Sam sighed, and passed the tape back. "He's gonna want that back," Sam said, and Dean blinked out a few tears. He needed that—to hear that confidence in Sam's voice, that affirmation. Dean took it, and clasped his fingers around it.

"What are we going to do?" Dean asked. "Mom. . . the Nephilim. . ."

Sam's shoulders deflated. "I don't know," he said.

Dean sucked on his lip. "Balthazar," he began, "Balthazar sent us to that other world. That creepy world."

Sam nodded. Dean looked back at Cas. That world's Cas. . . the weird guy, Misha. . . he died too. Thinking about that sent chills down Dean's spine. There was a world out there where they didn't have Cas. Dean wrung his hands together. Was there a world where he didn't fuck Cas up? Didn't ruin things for him?

"Maybe," Dean continued. "Maybe there's an angel that can send us to the Mad Max world, to get Mom back. Or they can bring her here."

He waited silently for Sam's response.

"I don't think that's going to happen," Sam said. "The angels hate us."

Dean was on his feet in an instant, spinning on his heels, screaming, "There has to be something we can do! We can't—we can't just leave her there! She's stuck, with _Lucifer_!"

Sam didn't flinch at Dean's outburst. "I think our best bet is finding the Nephilim. . . Jack. It—he—opened that portal. He can do it again."

Dean shut his eyes tight, grip tightening over the music tape. "Great," he said. "Great. So, our only hope is in Lucifer Jr. And he's gone, right? Flew the coop? Fan-fucking-tastic!"

"Maybe," Sam said. "Maybe he is good. Cas thought—"

"Cas wasn't Cas," Dean spat. "Okay? That _thing_ mojoed Cas into—into being his shield."

"We don't know that," Sam said.

"You heard what Cas said, at the cabin. The Nephilim—Jack," Dean spat the word out with vehemence, "Jack was the one who flambeed Dagon. And while he was doing that, Jack jacked Cas."

Sam exhaled slowly. "You said you had faith in Cas," he said.

Dean felt like he'd been slapped.

"Then have faith in Cas," Sam said. "Jack may be Lucifer's kid, but he's also part human. Maybe he can be good. I mean," Sam shrugged, and looked up at Dean in desperation, "isn't that the point? Isn't free will what we've fought for? We can't just assume that he's bad because of who his dad is."

"If he's good," Dean said, his voice an animalistic growl, "then where the hell did he go?"

Sam closed his mouth and bowed his head.

The ventilator pushed, and pulled.

.

.

.

Dean knew he should have expected police. Sam had told them there had been a stabbing—which was true, of course. Cas had been stabbed.

But how could Dean even begin to explain? Cas's wasn't mugged. This wasn't a robbery gone wrong, or just a random, horrible, violent attack like the sort that happened to good, ordinary people every day.

"What happened?" the officer asked for a second time. Dean picked at a loose thread on the old scrubs. He didn't want to be here. He wanted to be back in the room, looking over Cas, guarding him.

"We were at the lake," Sam said, because once more, Sam was the level-headed one. Sam was the one that didn't shut down in tragedy. Sam was the one that was always able to function, no matter the circumstances. Sam did what needed to be done. "Vacationing."

The officer took down notes, as Sam continued his tale of half-truths. He never lied, not really. He just didn't give the whole truth. Like, how they were at the cabin because Lucifer's baby was about to be born, and they needed to save Cas and the mother. Or, how Cas had been attacked by his own brother.

"This guy just showed up," Sam said. "He stabbed my brother," and Dean still flinched at how effortlessly Sam said the word, "and then he ran off."

"He didn't take anything?" the officer asked dubiously. Dean hated him.

"No," Sam said, confident and stern.

"What did he look like?"

"It was dark. We didn't get a good look at him."

"Try."

"Tall," Sam said, exhaling, impatiently. He was hating this just as much as Dean was. "White. Blond hair."

"That's all you got?"

"That's all we got," Sam said. "Are we done yet?"

The officer frowned. "We're trying to conduct an investigation," he said.

"And I'm trying not to lose my goddamn mind," Sam snapped. "Are. We. Done?"

The officer grumbled. He put his notebook away. "I'll get back to you gentleman."

"Thank you," Sam said, in a tone of voice that conveyed he wanted to say go fuck yourself instead.

Sam and Dean left the private corridor and went back into Cas's room, where nothing had changed.

They stood by his bedside for a moment.

"Guess it's no use hoping God's gonna come back and help us, huh?" Sam said.

Dean swallowed. "We don't need him," he said, watching Cas's chest rise and fall unnaturally, with the air that was being forced into and sucked out of him. He clenched his fist. "He's never done anything for us." And he hadn't. Even last year, with Amara, God didn't do anything. He sat there, and watched, and twiddled his thumbs, like he'd been doing for the past eternity. Then, he spent half the time dying. Hell, he didn't even talk to Cas. Couldn't be bothered. He'd buddy up to Lucifer, no sweat. Kiss Lucifer's ass, an eternity of hatred and animosity swept under the rug, forgotten like it never happened—but Cas?

God didn't give a damn about any of them. Even Cas, the only one of the angels actually worth a damn.

"We've never needed him," Dean finished. He looked at Sam seriously. "We've always solved our own problems. We'll solve this one too."

They would find Jack, and save Mom, and get Cas all healed up, and then Dean was going to get all of them back into the bunker, lock it down, and never leave.

Then, finally, maybe, they could safe.

The ventilator pushed, and pulled.


	3. Chapter 3

_Son of man, you cannot say or guess,_

 _For you know only a heap of broken images,_

 _Where the sun beats, and the dead tree gives no shelter,_

 _The cricket no relief_

 _And the dry stone no sound of water_

 _Only there is shadow under this red rock_

 _And I will show you something different from either_

The Wasteland, T.S. Eliot

Chapter Three

"No, no, no!" Lucifer screamed, and the ground quaked, a fissure ripping through the earth like paper. Mary fell sideways, and scrambled backwards, heels scuffing the hard ground. Her heart beat a mile a minute in her chest, rattling her ribs, and she couldn't breathe. She looked forward, and the yellow tear was gone—nowhere to be seen.

Everything was gray. A dark, muted color, like reds, and blues, and yellows had never existed before. Strange pillars grew from the ground, like narrow pyramids, metallic in color. On one of them, a body was impaled, blood coloring the entire way up.

Lucifer turned around, and his eyes were full or murder, an alarming red. He screamed, and it was an animalistic sound, like a dragon's screech. Mary's teeth ached.

"You," he growled, and stalked towards her. Mary panicked, and scrambled, getting to her feet. She was trapped. She had no hope of out running Lucifer. She braced her hands, and gripped on tight to the brass knuckles, holding her arms into position like a boxer.

She swung as Lucifer got closer, but she couldn't hide her fear.

"Don't come any closer," she said, and winced at how pathetic it sounded even to her.

Lucifer chuckled. His tongue poked out between his lips. It was forked. "That's cute," Lucifer said. He flicked his wrist, and Mary was thrown sideways, slamming right into one of the pillars. She let out a wordless scream as her bones rang underneath her skin, and pain skyrocketed in every direction. Stars danced in her vision.

Lucifer came closer, his footsteps ominous, kicking up dirt. "I'm going to kill you slow," Lucifer said. He shook his arm, and a metal blade fell out his sleeve, into his hand. He tilted his head to the side, eyes narrowed studiously. Mary was reminded of Castiel doing something similar, and for a split second, her heart ached for the angel that was family—but she didn't have the time to grieve long. Self-preservation clawed at her throat.

Lucifer came closer, and Mary had nowhere to go. Bile burned at her throat.

Lucifer raised his blade—and then he was surrounded by a yellow glow that took over his entire form. A sonic boom exploded, and Mary doubled over, vomiting blood.

Lucifer was gone. There were just his footprints in the sand as evidence he'd even ever been there. Mary's ears rang. A man walked towards her. His mouth moved, but no sound came out. Mary squeezed onto the brass knuckles, and licked away the blood that was resting on her lips.

"Stay back," she yelled, but it sounded like she was speaking underwater. The man had a pinched expression.

"Mary?" she heard eventually. "Mary Campbell?"

Mary narrowed her eyebrows. Campbell? Nobody had called her Campbell in years. She couldn't remember the last time she even thought of herself as Mary Campbell. She shook her head, then winced as agony raced down her spine. She felt like she was going to vomit again. She clamped her eyes shut. "No," she said. Sound was slowly coming back to her, but everything was underscored by a sharp, high pitched ringing. She clenched her teeth together. "No, I'm Mary Winchester."

The man stared at her for a long moment. He was dirty, smeared with mud and grime, and the horrors of war etched into the lines on his face. Then he sighed, shoulders sagging. "Fucking hell," he said.

.

.

.

"Drink," Bobby said, passing Mary his canteen. Mary took it cautiously, wincing. Bobby stared at her studiously. It made Mary uncomfortable. Every move she made was being scrutinized. Her hands shook as she undid the cap, and when water first touched her lips, she suddenly was parched. She tipped the canteen back and water flooded into her mouth, down her esophagus. It washed the taste of blood down her throat. She had to pocket the brass knuckles to work his fingers.

"Woah, woah, woah," Bobby said, gently touching Mary's wrist. "Easy there, you idjit. You're gonna make yourself sick, and then I'll have to kick your ass for wasting water."

Mary stopped, and gasped for air. She passed the canteen to Bobby. He rolled his eyes as he screwed the cap back on. Mary looked back to the spot where Lucifer had just been. His footprints were black.

She didn't understand. He had been there, and now he was just gone. Vanished in a bright blast of white. When Mary rubbed her eyes, she could still see it, imprinted into her psyche. "What did you do?" she asked, voice shaking.

Bobby raised his hand, revealing a fresh cut down his dirty palm. He smiled. "Angel banishing sigil," he said. "Blows the little winged bastards clear across the planet."

Mary shivered. She crossed her arms over her chest. "But he's not dead?"

"Hell no. No, it doesn't kill them. Puts them out of commission for a bit, and they always come back madder than bull at a rodeo. But it's a quick fix for saving your hide."

Bobby dug into his messenger bag beside him. "Now, where're you hurting?"

"Everywhere," Mary moaned, putting all her weight on the steel pillar.

Bobby twisted so that he was facing Mary. He put one hand under Mary's chin, and held the other up, pointing a finger. "Follow with your eyes," he said, and moved his finger left and right, up and down. Mary tried, but something felt strange. Wrong. She didn't know how to describe it. Her eyes wouldn't follow the commands of her brain.

"Figures," Bobby grumbled. "You've got a hell of a concussion. Hopefully that's all that's wrong with ya. Don't got the means to do much of anything else. I only got antibiotics in here. The good stuff is back at camp."

"Where am I?" Mary asked. It was a struggle to keep her eyes open. Her eyelids were heavy, and sagging. Bobby shook her roughly. Mary forced her eyes open. Right. Concussion. Bobby smiled.

"Welcome to Hell," he said cheerily.

Mary stared at him. Ice flooded her veins.

"Well," Bobby said, shrugging just a bit, pursing his lip. "Not Hell Hell, but good enough."

.

.

.

It was a slow process. Bobby helped Mary to her feet and she immediately stumbled. Bobby held her up, and helped steady her. Her wrapped her arms over his neck, and let her lean all the way into his side. They walked slowly. Each step sent a shockwave of pain up Mary's spine, and it ricocheted in her skull. She ground her teeth together to keep from screaming aloud. The tension pulled at her temples.

Thunder rolled above her. Lightning danced across the sky in horizontal waves, in different colors: reds, blues, yellows, greens. Occasionally they would clash together in a sonic boom that shook the ground. It reminded Mary of a fireworks show.

But she couldn't be mesmerized with the beauty of the colors, and she couldn't occupy her time trying to find faces in the explosions. There was nothing but pain in her mind.

"Angels," Bobby explained. He put a distasteful stress on the word. "Meanest sons of bitches around. I'll take ten demons over one angel any day of the week."

Mary swallowed. They walked further along. "What makes them so bad?" she asked. The only angel she had met was Castiel. He was strange, but nice enough. And her loved her boys so much. Anything that could love like that wasn't evil. Mary's heart ached.

Bobby snorted. "How 'bout I tell you what makes 'em good? That list is shorter. This—" Bobby gestured with his free hand, pointing all around, "is what's wrong with 'em. They started all this."

There was no sign of life anywhere. No vegetation, or animals, or clouds in the sky. Just an endless escape of gray that stretched over the horizon. Another sonic boom rattled the ground. Mary lost her balance. It was only holding onto Bobby that helped her remain upright. "Why?"

Bobby snorted. "'Cause why not?"

Mary winced and hissed as another jolt of pain sprang up her spine. "Huh?"

Bobby kept steady and firm. He kept the pace manageable. "Apparently it's the big The End. Capital A-Apocalypse. Revelations, yadda yadda." Bobby snorted and shook his head. "Y'know, you find out angels are real and they out to be the biggest dicks ever made. That's irony for ya. It'd be funny if it weren't so damn miserable. Angels. Pfft. Just a bunch of spoiled, selfish brats."

Mary thought of Castiel, and his uneasiness. She thought of him, shamefully admitting, that he wasn't sure if he belonged on Earth. She thought of Castiel standing there, in the bunker, saying nothing as Mary threw insult after insult at him, piling blame onto his shoulders where it didn't belong—and he took it, and accepted it without rebuttal, and he looked so sad. He always looked so sad. And he loved Sam and Dean so much. Mary didn't need to hear him admit it to know. It was as obvious as daylight. Grief crushed her heart.

"Not all of them," she said softly.

Bobby chuckled. "Right. The flyboy from your World. Sure. Maybe. I could tell he was different by looking at him, but he might be the only one."

"He's dead," Mary said, swallowing thickly.

Bobby stopped. Mary lurched forward, caught in her own momentum. Bobby stopped her from face planting into the dirt. He looked at her, so many questions swimming in his eyes, eyebrows pinched in confusion, mouth twisted into a disbelieving frown.

"I just saw him with those other two idjits not an hour ago."

Mary swallowed again. She nodded. She thought of those lights shining from Castiel's eyes and mouth, before he slumped to the ground and didn't move. "Yeah," she said.

Bobby's frowned deepened. He stared deep into Mary's eyes. Mary didn't know what he was searching for, but she didn't look away.

"Well, shit," Bobby said. "I'm sorry."

"Thanks," Mary said, even though she didn't mean it. She hated it. Why did people insist on saying sorry when someone died? It didn't make it better. It didn't make it one iota better. She'd rather they not say anything. Castiel was dead. There was nothing anyone could do about it.

She kept looking at the sky, at the angels fighting with demons. She winced when they began walking again. Bobby's stride was more stable than hers. "How much further?"

"Not too far," Bobby said in a tone that betrayed him. Mary moaned in pain, but she pushed on. She had to push on. Once they got to wherever Bobby was taking her, she could get her head together, and find her way back to her World, her boys. They needed her. Especially now. Castiel was dead, and while Mary didn't know him that well, she knew her was a vital component of Sam and Dean's lives, had been for a long time. Mary's heart ached. Dean was four when she died. Sam six months. Castiel had been in their lives longer than Mary had. She needed to be there for her boys during this turbulent time.

And she wanted to be there to pay proper respect to Castiel, the guardian angel that had watched over her troubled, broken boys for so long. She hadn't known him long or well, but he had carved his own spot into her heart as well. She meant what she told Ketch. He was one of her boys too.

Tears burned at Mary's eyes. She tried to fight them, but she was hurting everywhere, and terrified out of her mind, that it was a useless effort. They fell effortlessly and silently.

Bobby didn't say anything about it. Mary was grateful. They kept walking.

.

.

.

The sun was obscured by all the dust, but Mary could still tell when it night had fallen. The air grew noticeably cooler. She could see her breathe curl out in front of her face.

And finally, finally, they came to a halt. Mary's heart leap up into her chest.

She was at the bunker. The door was just the same as it was in her world. A small series of steps lead down to it. They took them slowly. Mary had to lean against Bobby as he dug the key out of his messenger bag. It was the same key Dean had given her. Bobby turned the tumblers and the door swung open, the hinges shrieking.

"Come on, Mary," Bobby said. He led her inside, and it was just like the bunker in her world. Nothing looked out of place, or different. For a moment, she could believe she was in her world. For a long moment, she could convince herself that this wasn't really happening, that everything was okay. Sam and Dean would come out of the hallway any moment now, shoving each other playfully into the walls, racing to the kitchen. Dean would be cooking breakfast, and Sam would be complaining about Dean's high cholesterol diet.

And for a moment, she could even believe that Castiel would be there too, sitting at the table, watching her boys with his brows pinched in confusion, but eyes sparkling with amusement nonetheless.

Bobby walked her down the stairs slowly. Mary's steps were heavy, banging the metal. It echoed throughout the bunker.

Mary couldn't fool herself. No matter how much it looked like her bunker, this was not her bunker. Her boys were not anywhere here. And Castiel wouldn't be sitting in the kitchen, or the library, watching over them in their sleep.

"There ya go," Bobby said, as they finished the last step. Mary's will was quickly leaving her body. Her mental anguish was worse than the physical pains that jostled every inch of her body with each minute movement. It was like there was a weight wrapped around her mind, pulling it under murky water, where she couldn't see anything, or hear anything—there was just pain.

Bobby set her down at one of the library chairs. It felt just like the one in her World. Creaked the same too, when she shifted her weight to the left.

Once she was off her feet, Mary's body stole control from her mind. Tears raced down her cheeks, hot and salty. These weren't from the physical pain, but the weight on her mind. She scanned the room, vision blurred, and cried harder. It was so quiet. All she could hear now where her own strangled breaths, and her cracked ribs rattling under her skin. Her lungs felt full of glass.

"Uh," Bobby said. He popped his lips. He put his gun down, and shook off his jacket. It fell to the ground, splashing mud onto the wood floors.

The sight made Mary swallow a shaking sob. She looked around, and realized, that this bunker wasn't an exact copy of the one in her world. There was dirt stomped into the grooves of the floor, a thick layer of dust on the tables and bookshelves, and an extreme lack of anything personable.

This wasn't a home. She looked at Bobby and wiped her face with her sleeve.

"Hang on, I've got the good stuff somewhere around here," Bobby said. His eyes were somber, but there was a gentleness underneath too, that pooled to the surface. "Stay put."

He stood and disappeared down the way that Mary knew was the kitchen. He was back moments later, a whiskey bottle in his hand. Bobby pulled the cork out with his teeth and handed Mary the bottle.

She stared at it a moment, then took it, and drank. She pulled a long sip, the alcohol burning at her throat.

Bobby chuckled. Mary paused and looked at him over the rim of the bottle neck. Bobby shrugged.

"You sure pound whiskey like Mary Campbell," he said.

Mary scowled and took another long swallow. "Pretty sure you're not supposed to drink with a concussion," she said.

"Nah," Bobby said. "It's the end of the World. Live a little. 'Sides, it's the only thing I got for pain. Narcotics were the first thing to be looted and that was years ago."

The pain was lessening. It wasn't quite gone, but it was foggy, no longer at the forefront of Mary's mind.

"I have to get back to my World," she said. Her face was still sticky with tears. "I need to get to my boys."

Bobby looked at her sadly. "Listen, Mary. Up until this morning, I didn't even know there were other Worlds And way I understand it, it took the devil's baby to get you here. I don't think. . ." He paused and licked his lips. "Your World really not as shitty as this one?"

"It's not an Apocalyptic wasteland, if that's what you mean," she said. She stared at the whiskey bottle, the auburn liquid shining through the glass. "There's still monsters and angels apparently. There was supposed to be an Apocalypse. The destined Revelations Apocalypse, but," she paused, and her throat constricted. "But my boys stopped it."

Bobby snorted in disbelief. "They _stopped_ it? They stopped destiny?"

Mary nodded. "Yes," she said, forcing every ounce of sincerity into the syllable. "My sons, and Castiel, saved our World."

Bobby looked down at the floor for a moment, and then he looked to the bottle in Mary's hand. Mary passed it to him without saying anything, and Bobby swallowed. "Wish we had them in this World."

Mary chewed her fingernails. Her chest was warm. She thought of what Bobby had said so far, and her mind was stuck on one thing. Bobby kept referring to his Mary as Mary Campbell.

"What happened to John Winchester?" she asked.

Bobby shrugged. "Not sure exactly. Never met the guy. Guess he and Mary were sweet back in the day, and something got him. It's the same story every hunter has. Get a few drinks into Mary, she used to ramble on about some 'yellow eyed demon', but I never knew what she was talking about. I've only seen red eyes on demons."

Mary bit her tongue. She winced, thinking of that awful night, when John was dead in her arms. Azazel's sweet voice in ear, promising. John would be okay, if she just made a deal. In ten years, all she had to do was stay out of the nursery, and everything would be okay.

She'd been nineteen. Ten years was so far away—it seemed like an eternity. And she didn't care about anything other than John—the love of her life. She couldn't imagine having to live the rest of her life without John.

The kiss tasted poisonous. It felt like bugs were crawling down her throat, but it was over in a second, and then John was awake, gasping in her arms, and Azazel was gone. Her parents were dead, but she hadn't been able to process that, either, too overwhelmed in her euphoria that John was alive.

Bobby looked at her. "What happened to him in your world?"

"I married him," she said. She met Bobby's eye, chin held high. "Made babies."

"Huh," Bobby said, after a beat. "I'll be damned."

"We aren't already?"

"Touché," Bobby said. Mary smiled humorlessly.

"I'm not giving up," she said. "I'm going to find a way to get back to my World." No matter how long it took her, no matter how far she had to search, or what sort of deals she had to make, nothing was going to stop her. She got a second chance with her boys. A second chance of life. How many people got that opportunity? For her not to at least try would be to throw it away. Not the mention, her boys didn't deserve that. They deserved a mother that would fight for them, tooth and nail, to Hell and back.

Bobby looked at her sadly. "We may not be alive long enough for us to even search for a way," he said.

Mary furrowed her eyebrows.

Bobby scoffed. "Did you forget sweetheart, that there's now two Lucifer's out there?" he pointed to the door at the top of the staircase. "You saw what one did. Can you imagine what another will accomplish? I don't know why that portal opened between our Worlds, but I take it that's not a sun up, sun down routine occasion." Bobby snorted. "Can't even remember the last time I saw the sun."

Mary's throat grew dry. She hadn't even thought about that at all. She swallowed. It went down painfully. Suddenly her buzz wasn't enough. Her swollen eyes began to fill with tears again.

If she died here, would her boys ever know? Would they ever stop looking, ever give up hope?

"I'm going get back to my boys," Mary said. She forced more certainty into the word than she felt, hoping that if she forced it enough, she could believe it in her heart.

Bobby huffed. "I remember when I felt that optimistic," he said. "But most days, I wake up, and think, you know, what's even the point? There's not a World left anymore to save. We're animals now. Surviving for survivals sake just isn't. . ."

"You've survived this long," Mary said. "You're alive. There's a reason you're still here. There's a reason you haven't ended it all. If you really believe that it's not worth it, you would've taken a bullet to the head years ago. But you haven't. That's enough for me. Hope's not all lost. I'm not giving up. You haven't."

Mary licked her lips. She reached into her jacket pocket and clasped her hand around the brass knuckles. She pulled them out and weighed them in her hand. They were heavy. She traced her fingernail in the grooves of the etchings. There was a bit of blood stained onto the rings. Mary put them on and clenched her fists. She looked at Bobby, and flashed the bronze knuckles. They glowed dully against the harsh light. She pointed to the blood stain.

"This morning," she said slowly, testing each word, "I punched the fucking devil in the face. I'm getting home."

-0-0-

 _AN: Please review? They make me really happy ^.^_


	4. Chapter 4

_I can't remember anything_

 _Can't tell if this is true or dream_

 _Deep down inside I feel to scream_

 _This terrible silence stops me_

-One, Metallica

Chapter Four

Dr. Whitaker kicked them out of the room at eight pm. Dean reluctantly left, and he didn't even put up a fight, even though he desperately wanted to. He didn't want to leave Cas's side. He wanted to be right there when Cas woke up-and really, Cas could wake up at any time. There was that time after Cas came back from the seventies and fell flat comatose on the bed. He'd been still as stone for almost two days, and then he shot up straight, gasping for air, suddenly and immediately, without warning. He'd given Dean a heart attack right then. But there'd been no signs that he was slowly coming to, like what typically happened with people coming back to consciousness. Cas just did. That could happen again. What if Cas woke up overnight and Dean wasn't there? In a hospital room with people he didn't know, no idea how he got there, no idea where Dean and Sam were, or if they were even okay? He'd be terrified. Dean couldn't do that. Dean couldn't—he couldn't—let Cas down again.

But Dr. Whitaker had that look on his face, the one that Dean knew left no room for arguments. And Dean couldn't risk pissing off the man that stood between him and Cas. It was only out of Dr. Whitaker's generosity that Dean and Sam were able to even see Cas in the ICU. If he wanted to be able to see Cas at all during his recovery, Dean needed to stay on the doctor's good side. Arguing, spitting, and kicking at the man wasn't going to achieve that.

Still, Sam had to practically drag Dean out of the room by the elbows, and Dean still wasn't in any sort of mindset to drive. He just let Sam push and pull his body where it needed to go. It was dark and the parking lot was nearly empty. Sam had the bag filled with his and Dean's dirty clothes, and Cas's bag of bloodied clothes—they were just going to have to burn them, there was nothing that could be salvaged—but Dean still had the tape in his pocket, and every few minutes he had to stick his hand into it and feel it, just to make sure it was still there.

He got in the Impala, and Sam fiddled with his phone for a moment, searching for the nearest motel. There was one just a mile away. Dean didn't remember the drive from the hospital to the parking lot. The entire thing was black.

"I'll get us checked in," Sam said. Dean nodded and forced himself out of the car. He had to be conscious of every movement, mentally preparing himself for each one. Even the simple ones. Undoing his seat belt, opening the car door, getting out, standing up, closing the car door.

Then there were the other movements that seemed to be just too much. Like opening the trunk and getting out their bags. Dean couldn't get his mind to shut up. It hadn't even been a full twenty-fours yet. The sun was a few hours away from rising when all this shit began to run down hill: Cas getting stabbed, Mom tripping into the vortex, burying Kelly.

Dean's stomach ached, and it was then he realized that neither he nor Sam had eaten all day. The thought of food made Dean sick, but he knew he had to eat. The starvation process could begin in just a few hours. He opened the trunk and pulled out his and Sam's duffel bags, and then he waited for Sam to show up with the room key. Sam was back in just a few minutes, jangling the keys from the pathway, and Dean walked up to him.

When they got to their room, Dean fell on the bed closest to the door, face first, and he screamed into the pillow. It was itchy and smelled like mothballs.

"I feel the same," Sam said. He rummaged through his duffel bag. Dean found enough strength left in him to turn onto his side and face Sam. Sam had his laptop out and was typing furiously.

"What are you looking for?" Dean muttered.

Sam ran a hand through his already wild hair. It was puffed out in all directions, like an angry cat. "Anything on Jack. If we're gonna get him to bring Mom back, we have to find him. Someone's had to have seen him, right?"

Dean shrugged. "That means it's gonna be on the news?"

Sam groaned. "Look, Dean. I am doing all I can, okay? We're grasping at straws, I get that, but I will take anything I can find, even if it's from some alien conspiracy theorist, the moon-landing-was-staged nutjob. He has yellow eyes, Dean. That sort of thing stands out."

"Enough for it to make headlines?"

Sam glared at Dean, lips curling over his teeth.

"Sorry," Dean muttered.

Sam sighed and rubbed his face. "It's fine," he said, shaking his head. He cracked his knuckles and began to type furiously. "We just gotta keep our eye out. For now, though, we gotta get the insurance stuff with Cas figured out."

Dean hadn't even thought of that. Shame swam in his gut. Once again, Sam was the one on top of things, figuring out all the important stuff. It was going to take a while. They had given Cas fake IDs and credit cards, but they'd never needed to go all out with insurance paperwork before. Sam was good at hacking into databases like that, but it would still take him a few hours to work from scratch.

Dean's stomach growled, and he clutched it.

Sam didn't look at him, his eyes stuck on the computer. "You should order take out."

"I'm not hungry," Dean grumbled.

"Your stomach begs to differ. I heard it from here."

Dean glared at Sam. "If I eat, I'm gonna be sick."

"You need to eat something," Sam said. He rubbed his eyes and looked to the ceiling. "When was Jimmy's birthday?"

Dean shrugged. "I don't know. And what's the point in eating something if I'm just gonna puke?"

"Maybe you won't puke," Sam said. "Maybe you'll feel better." Sam chewed on his lip. "Jimmy was probably about your age, right? Maybe a bit older."

Dean shrugged again. He didn't know. He didn't care. "Put old as fuck," he said. "I don't think Cas even knows how old he is."

The bitch face Sam gave him made Dean smile, just a little bit. Sam shoved the old motel landline that was resting on the nightstand towards Dean. "Order dinner," Sam said. "And I'm gonna put down a date that's just a few years older than you, so if anyone asks, we're his younger brothers."

Dean closed his eyes and curled his fingers into the itchy bed sheets.

Sam waited a few moments. The room was filled with the sound of his super fast typing. Then, "You know, Cas is gonna need us to be in tip top shape. He'll be pissed if he wakes up and you've starved yourself. What good can you do him if you waste away?"

Dean ground his teeth together. That was a low blow, and Sam knew it—but Dean didn't have an argument in him. He racked his brain for anything he could use as ammo against Sam, and his stupid arguments, but there was nothing in him. Dean sighed, and picked up the take-out menu rested on the nightstand.

.

.

.

Everything was a muted gray. Dean felt like he was trapped under murky water. His movements were stifled, and he had to push through an unseen force. It wasn't difficult, but it did make his movements slower and clumsier. There was no light. Nothing, but an endless expanse of grayness. He didn't know which way was up, or down, or his own orientation. He walked forward—what he thought was forward- even though it felt like he wasn't moving at all. Everything was the same. It stretched on forever. He didn't know long he walked. Fatigue never set in.

But suddenly, there wasn't just grayness anymore. Something came into view above the horizon, a sight Dean had been conditioned to be on the constant lookout for, one that had come to mean relief, and elation, and comfort, and home all at once. A flash of billowing beige that was nearly swallowed and overshadowed by the gray. But Dean saw it. It was like a firework in the summer sky.

For a moment, Dean couldn't move. He stayed where he was and watched. The figure was facing away from Dean and it wasn't moving. Stock still, in the middle of all that nothingness. Dean knew that posture. Those hunched shoulders, tilted head. Even after all these years, he still wore that body like it was uncomfortable. Dean couldn't imagine what he was looking at. There was absolutely nothing around. It was just the two of them.

Dean swallowed and then he found his feet. He ran.

"Cas!"

Cas didn't react. Dean's feet moved fast, hitting what was underneath him. It felt like he was walking on water. He reached out, inching closer and closer to Cas with each step.

"Castiel!"

Dean made it to Cas. He grabbed onto Cas's shoulder and Dean was smiling so wide it hurt. He put himself in front of Cas, put both hands on Cas's shoulder, and gripped tight, reveling in _this_ ; the feeling of Cas, firm and steady, under his hands. "Cas," Dean said again, and there was a universe just in that one word; an amalgamation of all the things Dean felt but could never say. Dean felt so happy he thought for a moment he would cry, and he never needed to see those bright, blue eyes more than in that single moment. But in that moment, Dean was too happy to care. He pulled Cas against him, tucking Cas's head into crook of his neck. "Oh, God," Dean gasped.

They stood like that for a while. Dean didn't know how long. He didn't care. His eyes burned with tears. When he finally released Cas, he did so reluctantly, and stepped back just enough so that he could see Cas's face. He kept his hand tight on Cas's shoulder.

Cas wasn't looking at him. In fact, Dean couldn't even see his eyes. Cas's head was cast downwards, his hair and shadows concealing his face.

Dean's throat tightened. His heart slammed against his ribcage. His adrenaline was ebbing away, and all that elation was being replaced with anxiety. "Cas? You okay? What is this place?" Dean bent forward and angled his head, trying to catch Cas's eyes. He needed to see Cas's eyes, just catch of a glimpse of that bright, lightning gaze. Dean's mouth dried.

Cas twisted out of Dean's grip and turned around. He began to walk away.

"Hey, hey!"

Dean went after him, and reached out again, snagging the back of Cas's coat collar. Cas kept walking, unfazed by the pull of Dean's grip and there was a horrible ripping sound, razor sharp.

A piece of the coat fabric was in Dean's hand. Dean stared at it for a moment, breath caught in his throat. The fabric changed color in his hand. It was soaked in blood, still dripping in dark, thick, half-coagulated globs, smearing onto Dean's skin.

And Cas was still walking away. Dean chased him. "Cas, no! No!"

Dean ran in front of Cas, blocking his path. He put his hands on Cas's shoulders, braced his feet wide apart. He pushed against Cas. Cas stopped moving. "Cas, look at me. Look at me, please?"

Cas's shoulders rose and fell in tune with his breath under Dean's hands. It was a steady motion, one Dean latched onto, and threw all his hope in. Dean still had the bloody coat piece in his hand, and it was leaking onto the rest of Cas's outfit, running in rivulets down the hemming.

Cas said nothing. His head was still lowered. Dean shook him vigorously, putting all his weight and force into it, swinging him like a ragdoll. Cas's body moved bonelessly. Dean thought he was going crazy—for a moment, it seemed like wherever they were, it was getting darker. Gray bleed to black.

"Cas," Dean's voice cracked. "Castiel, do you hear me? I'm praying to you. I need you hear me. I need you to look at me, okay?" Dean shivered. His breath seized in his lungs. He hadn't prayed to Cas in _years_. Not since the angels fell and Cas was human. Not even after Cas got his grace back. His real grace. Dean didn't know if Cas could even still hear them and he never asked. He was too chicken to test the theory himself.

But right now, right now it was so important, critically important that Dean pray. He concentrated harder than he ever had with a prayer before, and filled every word with his heart, his need.

"Castiel," he closed his eyes tight, "I need you to look at me. This is Dean, do you copy? Show me those baby blues, buddy."

Dean peeled his eyes open like scabs. Snot was dripping down his nose. Cas's jaw was clenched tight, his mandible pressed up against his skin.

"Come back to me, buddy," Dean said. "You always do."

Cas's hand clenched at his side. His entire arm shook, the vibrations rattling all the way up his arm. Dean could feel it in Cas's shoulder. Cas's mouth parted open, and soon he was gasping for air. It was a low, raspy sound, crinkling like plastic. Cas was gasping like he couldn't get enough air, and angels didn't need to breath, but Cas wasn't an angel anymore-

"I've got you," Dean said, soft and gentle, gripping onto Cas tighter. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere and I've got you. We're getting out of here, right? I'm not leaving here without you."

Dean moved his hand from Cas's shoulder and gripped Cas's trembling hand. Dean squeezed it and brought it up, so that it was in-between their chests. "I'm here," Dean said. "Right here. I need you to see me. _Please_." It worked with Mom. It broke through the mind control the Men of Letters had put on her. Dean got her out. It had to work here, too. "Please," Dean said again.

Cas made a low sound in the back of his throat. A scratchy sound. Then, he released all his breath at once and slowly rose his head. Dean mentally prepared himself. Seeing those soft, gentle eyes, the ones that never failed to make Dean secure, even when they were fighting, was the most important thing in the world right now. Those eyes that had captivated him since a stormy night in Illinois, gazing not at, but _into_ him, those eyes that had seen straight into his soul, knew all the awful, awful things he'd done in Hell, knew how he had _enjoyed_ it, and still thought he deserved to be saved. Those eyes that had yet to ever look at Dean with disdain. Dean didn't know what Cas saw in him, but he did know that he couldn't bear to lose it.

Cas raised his head, and Dean's heart dropped into his stomach.

Cas's eyes were red.

Venomous, blood red. Pupils just a pinprick of black off center.

Dean struggled for words. His jaw trembled.

Nothing else was different. Cas still had that minute brush of stubble painted across his jaw. His eyebrows were pointed into that classic, scrutinizing gaze. His hair was dark and tousled. But his eyes—

Dean couldn't look at them and see Cas. Even with the change in color, there was something deeper inside the irises that wasn't Cas. Cas's gaze carried many things: years of war, grief, loneliness. They were the haunted eyes of a soldier, battered by the battles he endured. But they also carried a spark of life, dedication, stubbornness, and a gentleness that betrayed Cas's stony exterior. Even if Cas was a warrior, even if Cas was as acquainted with the horrors of war and grief as Dean was, there was still a hint of kindness swimming at the depths of his eyes. There was goodness.

Dean didn't see that. Cas wasn't anywhere in sight.

Dean dropped Cas's hand. He took his other hand off Cas's shoulder. The cloth piece in his grip was still dripping blood, staining Dean's hand, staining Cas where Dean had made contact. It was wet like water.

He took a shaky step back, like a trapped animal. Cas's hand was hanging in the air, reaching out towards Dean.

Dean continued stepping back. Slowly, one foot after the other, gradually putting distance between them. Cas frowned. He watched Dean take several steps back. And then his hand dropped. He put his head down, once more shielding his eyes, hiding them from sight. He turned around, and he began to walk away.

Dean watched. He was pulled apart by two different desires—to run away and to chase after him. Those red eyes were seared into his mind, depthless, but, Dean couldn't deny there was something magnetic about them. Something inside him itched to go after Cas. Cas was getting smaller and smaller as he walked closer to the horizon.

What if that was Cas?

He promised he wouldn't leave here without Cas.

Dean pulled the word from the very bottom of his throat. "Wait!" He tried to run, but his legs wouldn't obey his brain. His feet were cemented into the murky grayness. He couldn't move a muscle. "Cas! Castiel!"

Castiel vanished from sight.

.

.

.

Dean rolled out of the bed, whacking his head on the corner of the nightstand. Pain shot through him like electricity, and it hurt too much to even speak. He could only make a high-pitched whine.

"Dean?" Sam turned on the lamp. Dean shut his eyes as light filled the room. Sam climbed out of the bed and was beside him. "You okay?" Sam helped Dean sit up. Dean groaned and put a hand to his head. It wasn't bleeding, but he knew there would be a hell of a goose egg in just a few moments.

"Peachy keen," Dean said.

"Come on, get up." Sam put his hands under Dean's armpits and hoisted him up in one solid motion, and then he quickly dropped Dean back onto the bed. Dean rolled onto his back. His eyes slowly adjusted to the light.

"What time is it?" Dean muttered. He tried to turn his head towards the small alarm clock, but it was pointed out of sight.

"Little past seven," Sam said.

"Really?"

"Yeah. You slept for a good ten hours, at least."

Dean frowned. He didn't feel like it. His body was trained to perform on just four hours. He may have gotten a bit lazy with the bunker and stretched that out sometimes, but rarely did he ever sleep for more than seven hours. Ten hours was unheard of for him. And he felt like he didn't get a wink. His eyelids were heavy, and his thoughts were trapped in a cloud.

Dean pushed himself into a sitting position.

Sam's bed was still made. His laptop was sitting in the center, the charging cord plugged in, and Sam's side of the nightstand still had the trash from dinner last night strewn all over. The smell finally hit Dean.

"How long have you been up for?"

"Uh," Sam said, scratching the back of his head. "Actually. . ."

Dean huffed. "Hypocrite," he muttered.

"I've been working on the insurance stuff for Cas—don't worry, that's all settled, but let's just try not to raise any suspicion and get people asking too many questions."

Tension melted out of Dean. The pain in his temple had quieted to a dull throb. "And?" he asked.

"And," Sam inhaled, reaching for his computer, "I've been looking for anything that might scream Jack."

"You find anything?"

"Yes, actually."

Dean straightened up, wide-awake like ice water had been dumped on him. "What?"

"Check this out," Sam handed Dean his laptop. It was open on a news article.

CINCINNATI BEAR KILLED BY INTRUDER

Dean narrowed his eyebrows. "Really, Sam? Now's not the time for one of your 'Save the Animals' parades."

"Just watch the damn video."

Dean scrolled to the bottom of the webpage, past the article, and found the video. It was a grainy security camera, low quality, but Dean could make out the shapes of the bear and its toys.

A person came into view. Tall and skinny. He walked up to the sleeping bear, and touched its back. The bear jerked awake, and the person in the video jumped back. The bear stood up, hair on end, teeth bared. It lashed out a paw, but the man in the video raised a hand, and the bear seemed to be frozen in place.

This lasted for several seconds, then the man dropped his hand and stepped back. The bear fell forward, limp, tongue rolling out his mouth. The person looked directly into the security camera, eyes bright yellow. Then he disappeared, all at once, like he was never there to be begin with.

The video stopped. Dean stared at the end screen for a moment. "Wow," Dean said, looking back to Sam. "Didn't think Satan's kid would be the go to the zoo type."

Sam huffed. "Who knew?" he said in an attempt for levity. "That's all I could find. It looks like he's just zapping around all over the place."

Dean frowned. "So we're still batting zero."

"Yeah," Sam said.

"Great." Dean pushed the laptop back to Sam. Sam took it, and gingerly put it back on the bed. Mom was still in that awful world, with Lucifer, and they still had no way of getting her back. They had to find a way of catching Jack soon.

And Dean still couldn't shake off that dream. Cas's bright red eyes, cutting through the surrounding grayness. That place was horrifying. It brought him back to that prison cell. Just nothingness.

"You okay?" Sam asked.

Dean jumped. "Yeah," he said, rubbing at his jaw. His stubble was rough against his palm. He needed a shave, but he didn't have the strength in him to do it. Just thinking about it was too much work. "Bad dream," he said.

"I bet."

Dean sighed.

"I called Jody," Sam said. "She's gonna put a BOLO on Jack and let other hunters know."

"What?" Dean snapped. "Sam, are you crazy? The kid's juiced up! We don't even know how powerful he actually is, but he killed that bear with his mind! You really gonna put Jody's neck on the line?"

Sam sighed in exasperation. "It was mostly for precaution. Jody knows he's dangerous. Besides, maybe teaming up with other hunters is what it's gonna take. It's how we were able to take out the Brits."

Dean rubbed his eyes. His head throbbed in sync with his heartbeat. He didn't want to have this argument with Sam. He didn't want to have any argument with Sam, but not especially right now, and not about this. Jody was one of the few people Dean hadn't fucked up by knowing her—he wanted to keep it that way. And he'd do whatever it took to keep her out of all this—even if it meant never seeing her again.

But there wasn't just Jody.

"What about Claire? Does she know about Cas?"

Sam shook his head. "No," he said, and there was shame underneath. "I—I didn't want to worry her."

Dean gaped at Sam. "Oh, so you'll tell them about Lucifer's bomb baby, but not that Cas is in a coma?"

Sam clenched his jaw and swatted his hand. "It's too soon," he said. "And. . ."

"And?"

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "And I didn't want to tell her," he snapped. "Okay? I was too cowardly to tell her! We promised her we'd look after Cas. I don't know how things are exactly between them, but she cares about him, at least a little. And she asked us to take care of him—and, and, I didn't want admit how badly we failed." Sam's eyes began to shine. "Okay? It's stupid, and selfish, I know, but. . ." Sam trailed off. He looked aimlessly into the corner of the room.

"Yeah," Dean said, sighing. He knew. He knew too well. And Sam was right. It did hurt. These past two years alone, Cas had been through the wood chipper. Lucifer, and Ramiel, and now this? "I get it."

Maybe Sam was right. Now wasn't the time to tell Claire.

When Cas woke up, that's when they'd tell her. That way she wouldn't worry so much.

Dean chewed on his fingernail. That dream still wouldn't let go of him. Those red, emotionless eyes. And all that grayness. That nothingness. He only spent six weeks in that government prison, and it drove him mad. Mad enough to make a stupid deal.

A stupid deal that Cas broke. That Cas broke that saved all of them: him, Sam, and Mom.

Cosmic consequences.

"Fuck," Dean muttered. He didn't need any more reminders of what a shitty friend he was. The worst part was he promised Cas he'd try better. That day in the car, when they thought the world was ending, and that this was their last chance. Dean had tried. He had a plan of what he was going to say.

And the he chickened out. He dropped the entire plan, and tried to make up something on the spot, and it ended disastrously. _You're our brother_ , he told Cas, the words burning his throat as he said them, and then it had been too late. He couldn't take it back. And the world was ending. What kind of dick would he be if he had declared his love right then and there?

That wasn't the worst part though. The worst part was that he had promised Cas he would try better. That he wouldn't get so focused on himself and Sam that he lost sight of everyone else. Then Mom came back, and everything was thrown for a tailspin again. Dean had to juggle between Sam and Mom, and Cas once more was pushed back.

He should have balled up on that beer run. He should have told Cas the truth. He had been trying to spare Cas pain, and instead he heaped onto it tenfold. Maybe if Dean had told Cas what he really felt, they wouldn't be in this position. Cas wouldn't keep going off on suicide redemption missions. He'd stay there, in the bunker. He'd stay home, and they could be a family, and Dean wouldn't be sick with worry every moment someone was off on one mission or another. Him, Sam, Cas, and Mom. They were a family. Battered and broken and bruised, but they were family. They were supposed to stick together.

Dean reached into his pants pocket. He still had the cassette tape in his pocket. It left a red impression mark on his thigh. The tape was spooled all the way onto the right side. Cas had listened to the whole thing. Dean wondered how many times Cas wound and re-wound the tape. How many nights his truck was filled with the sound of Led Zeppelin, vibrating the seats and frame of the beat-up Ford.

"Why don't you go take a shower?" Sam asked.

"I'm fine," Dean said.

"Dean!"

Dean jerked at Sam's outburst, surprised. Sam scowled, eyes wide and wild. Dean stilled under his gaze. A lump was stuck in his throat. He forgot that Sam wasn't always just a goofy, puppy eyed nerd. Deep down, Sam was a killer just like Dean, and Mary.

"We'll each take a shower. We'll grab some breakfast. Then we'll go back to the hospital. In that order. Now, go."

Dean didn't have it in him to argue.

.

.

.

Dean wouldn't admit it to Sam, but showering did help him feel minutely better. He shaved and brushed his teeth, and for a moment when he looked at himself in the mirror, he could pretend that his entire world hadn't gone down the crapper just twenty-four hours ago.

It didn't last for long, of course. It all came back to him, ramming into him like a tidal wave. The emotions swelled in his chest, and threatened to pull him under.

But he swallowed and raised his head up, white-knuckling the sink basin as he stared at himself in the mirror. He wasn't losing himself this time. Instead, he was struggling to hang onto the coat tails of the other parts of his life that were falling apart at his feet.

Dean exhaled slowly, and released the tension that was resting in his body like stone. He couldn't not think of Mom, lost in that Apocalyptic wasteland. Their only hope of saving her was to track down Jack, and get him to re-open that portal. And that meant having to track him down, while he had the ability to fly anywhere in the World he wanted.

There had to be a way they could track him. Dean and Sam would just have to hit the books, and scourge the deepest corners of the Internet, and not their nose up at any sort of lore, no matter how asinine it seemed.

But until then, until they stumbled across anything useful, all they could do was wait by Cas's side, and hopefully be there when he woke up.

When Dean closed his eyes, he was back in that dream, and Cas was walking away. Dean couldn't let Cas walk away.

He got out of the bathroom, and watched the local news while Sam took his shower. He got dressed in clean clothes and sat awkwardly on the corner of the bed, plucking at a loose thread. The tape was sitting on the edge of the nightstand. Steam from Sam's shower curled under the door.

Dean took the tape and put it in his pocket. Having that weight in his pocket was comforting, somehow. It was an anchor to reality. Something tangible he could wrap his fingers around. And a reminder not to lose hope, not to fall into that pit of self-loathing. There were people counting on him to keep his head on straight. And he needed to be there to give Cas the tape back.

Sam came out, finally, and the two of them got ready to go. They left the motel room and crossed the parking lot.

There was a man standing by the trunk of the Impala, reclining against it, hands tucked neatly into the pockets of his dark suit jacket. He was tall, with dusty blonde hair, and brown eyes.

Dean and Sam stopped.

The man grinned, teeth perfectly white and straight. "Sam and Dean Winchester. Just the men I've been waiting for." The man stood straight and walked forward. His blinked, and when he opened his eyes, they were yellow. "Name's Asmodeus. Let's have a chat, hm?"

-0-0

 _AN: What'cha think? Let me know with a review, pretty please! ^.^_


	5. Chapter 5

_Holy water cannot help you now_

 _A thousand armies couldn't keep me out_

 _I don't want your money_

 _I don't want your crowd_

 _See I've come to burn_

 _Your Kingdom down_

-Seven Devils, Florence + The Machine

Chapter Five

Dean stuck his hand out in front of Sam and reached into his jacket pocket for the demon blade. The weight was familiar in his hand.

Asmodeus rolled his eyes. "Now really, there's no need for that."

Behind Dean, Sam cocked his gun and raised it. "What do you want?"

Asmodeus shrugged and chuckled. "I told you. I just want to talk."

"We don't want to talk to you," Dean said, swallowing thickly. His hand trembled. The demon blade wouldn't be able to kill this guy. It might not even hurt him. Dean didn't think they had anything in their arsenal that could. Ramiel was killed with the Lance of Michael, and Dagon got flambeed by the Nephilim. Nothing Dean had could do that kind of damage.

"Relax," Asmodeus said, huffing. "I'm sorry if this comes as a blow to your oversized egos, but I don't care about either of you. Couldn't give a rat's ass, frankly. I'm merely here on business."

"What kind of business?" Sam asked. Dean could see Sam's gun raised out of his peripheral vision.

"Hell. My brothers are all dead. Crowley too, if the grapevine is to be believed."

Asmodeus narrowed his eyes and squinted. He was assessing them, Dean knew.

"Yeah," Dean said. "Crowley's dead."

Asmodeus nodded and laughed. "Good. Never liked how Ramiel just threw away the throne to that little snake. The worst person to be given power is someone who actually wants it. Crowley was always such a kiss ass, but one little taste of power, and suddenly he's on a high horse, thinking he's cream of the crop." Asmodeus twisted his face in disgust. "So, you see, Hell needs a new ruler."

"And that would be you?" Dean asked.

"Hey, what do you know! You're not as dumb as they made you out to be, Dean." He winked and cracked his neck. "Mind I don't _want_ it. There's a reason my brothers and I hid so low for so long. But, someone's got to do it."

Dean clenched his jaw. "What does this have to do with us?" he snapped.

"You two have made quite a name for yourselves in Hell. Most demons fear you. Which, let's be honest, they rightly should be. Demons are hive creatures. They need a ruler. Left to their own devices, they'll just get themselves killed, not to mention the collateral damage that would occur. Hell hasn't had a decent ruler in eons. But if there was one thing Crowley had right, it's that Hell's a business, yes? Not a kingdom, not really. And businesses need employees. And you two have a reputation for, see, killing my employees."

Dean huffed. He steadied his hand. "And I don't lose a wink of sleep over any of 'em."

"Oh, no, you shouldn't. See, if you killed them, then they were idiots. Obviously, smart demons would stay as far away from you two as a whore does church. But I would appreciate if you kept the casualties to a minimum."

Dean looked over his shoulder at Sam. Sam met his gaze and swallowed, an entire conversation floating in his eyes. He nodded. Dean turned back to Asmodeus.

"What if an innocent person dies?"

Asmodeus bit his lip, then shrugged. "Fair game. We'll try to keep deaths to only those who sold their souls, but you know how these things go. A few things always get lost in translation. There's always a spanner in the works."

"Fine," Dean said. "Keep your kills only to those who made deals, and we won't have any problems." Dean didn't have much sympathy for people who sold their souls. They knew what they were getting into. The stakes were always clear as day. They got whatever it was that was so important to them—fame, money, beauty, what have you—and in exchange they went to Hell. Dean sold his soul for Sam. He never regretted it. Even now, years later, soul forty years older than his body, Hell still in his veins, Dean didn't regret making that deal that brought Sam back.

But even he knew it was stupid and unhealthy. It was why he stopped Max from making the deal with that witch. He felt for the guy. He knew exactly how Max felt, having lost his Mom and his sister, but Dean couldn't bear to have Max suffer what Dean did. People who chose Hell deserved Hell. Dean would rather put his focus on others. Innocent people who somehow got caught in the crossfires of this insane, painful world.

Asmodeus grinned. "Excellent. Glad we're on the same page then."

"Wait," Sam said. "How do we know you'll keep up your end?"

Asmodeus raised an eyebrow. "You're just going to have to trust me, boy king."

Sam swallowed, and even Dean's bones were filled with ice at the flippant way Asmodeus used the title.

"Not good enough," Sam said. "We need more that."

Asmodeus huffed. He was amused. "You're not really in a position to bargain, are you Sam Winchester? Believe me, I'm the best guy to take the throne. Crowley's minions are as self-righteous as he was, and only half as smart. Pride and stupidity are a dangerous combination. And with Lucifer's spawn in the wind, we've got to set our roots down now. That 'child' is a ticking time bomb."

"You know where he is?" Dean asked.

Asmodeus's eyes narrowed and he snarled. His yellow eyes widened, and it brought goosebumps on Dean's skin. He couldn't help but think of Azazel, possessing his dad, or of the playground where Cas's eyes glowed that same, eerie, inhuman shade.

"No," Asmodeus said eventually, slowly. The word was filled with venom, and it seemed to pain him just to admit it. "He's cloaked himself from demons and angels alike. He may be newborn, but he's not stupid. We're on high-alert, however. I assure you, he will be taken out the moment we locate him."

"No!" Dean snapped, surprising himself at the volume of his voice. He didn't look away from Asmodeus's questioning eyes. "We need him."

" _You_ need him?"

"Our mom," Dean paused, wondering if it was wise to reveal all this information. He wrestled with himself, then decided to continue. There was nothing this asshole could do to hurt Mom, not while she was trapped in that awful world. "When Jack was born, he opened a portal to another world. Our mom fell through. We need Jack to get her back."

"Hate to break it to you boys, but your mama's good as dead. Get over it. There are more important matters at hand. The livelihood of seven point five billion people takes just a little priority over your mama, who, need I remind you, shouldn't even be alive to begin with?"

Dean clenched his teeth. Asmodeus was right, and Dean hated it. He couldn't put his mom over the rest of the population. But he couldn't just give up on her, either. And until he had solid proof, until God himself got his holy ass down here and told Dean explicitly that Mary was dead, Dean would not give up.

"I'm not giving up," Dean said.

"Then I take back what I said about you not being as stupid as the stories make out. Look, boys. I don't want there to be any animosity between us. Truly, I don't. It's best for all of us to get along. This Nephilim has the power to destroy the world. And, much as I loathe to admit it, you boys have a reputation for taking out the Big Bads."

"You want to work with us?" Sam said, huffing in disbelief. He snorted. "You'll have to forgive me if I don't take you for your word."

"Fair enough," Asmodeus said. "But we want the same thing. Crowley's motto still rings. Can't collect souls if the whole world's gone kla-blamo.. And this Nephilim is young, and not yet in control of its powers." He paused and popped his lips. "Do you boys know that baby snakes are deadlier than their parents?"

Dean furrowed his brows and sighed in exasperation. Asmodeus glared at him, eyes heavy with impatience. Dean shrugged, and made a vague, go on gesture, even if he didn't see the point. God, what was it with villains and monologuing?

"As I was saying. . . Adult snakes know much venom to inject into their prey to kill it. They adjust the amount appropriately based on the size of their prey. Larger prey get more venom than smaller prey. Baby snakes, however, have not yet learned this skill. They inject all their venom into their prey no matter the size. A bite from a baby snake is more likely to be fatal than a bite from an adult one. This Nephilim is the spawn of Lucifer. An archangel. There's never been anything like this. You say it had the power to open a portal between worlds? Then we have not even begun to see the potential it has for destruction. Even Lucifer can't open portals. This isn't something you can save, Dean Winchester. We're lucky it hasn't destroyed all ready!"

Dean shook his head. "No. Look, we knew an angel once. Balthazar. He threw us into an alternate dimension before. That means angels and demons can move between them."

Asmodeus muttered beneath his breath. Dean couldn't make out what he said, but it wasn't English. "Yes, I know about that. That fellow had the power of a Heavenly weapon on his side. That's what gave him the power to send you between Worlds. That power is not inherent in anyone. Anyone besides this Nephilim."

Dean looked at Sam. That made sense, actually. It explained a lot. But it still didn't help them find Mom. Dean imagined Heavenly weapons were kept locked down in Heaven, if they even still existed and hadn't been destroyed in the war with Raphael. So they still needed Jack.

"Look, Moe—can I call you Moe?" The demon looked stricken, his sneer pulling up past his lips, a low growl clawing at his throat. Dean ignored it. "You're not killing that kid until he's brought our Mom back."

Asmodeus rolled his eyes. "Look. Boys. I want to like you. Really, I do. I mean, who doesn't love a good underdog story? Especially you two—I mean, going up against the Grand Plan? And winning? Plus, Lucifer hates you, and frankly, I think that's absolutely hilarious. We're on the same page here. Enemy of my enemy, you know? A loss for Lucifer is a win for me."

"Wait," Sam interrupted. "You don't like Lucifer? I don't get it. I thought you princes were his right hand men, or something."

Something dark undertook Moe's face. A shadow swam in his eyes. His jaw tightened. He huffed. "Then you have a lot to learn, Sam Winchester." He sighed. "Fine. If you're going to continue to be so obstinate, then you're going to have put your money where your mouth is. You find the Nephilim first, then you can see if it'll open the portal to that other world, so you can save your mama. Or, bring back what's left of her, anyway. If I find it first, however. . ." Moe shrugged. "Well, then you know what'll happen." Moe's eyes narrowed.

"It doesn't sound like we're on the same page," Dean said. He had begun to relax slightly. It seemed like Moe really didn't want to hurt them. If he did, he wouldn't have spent all this time talking with them. But Dean still kept the blade tight in his hand, even if he knew deep down that it wouldn't even put a scratch in something as powerful as a Prince of Hell.

"Just remember, I tried to make this easy on you boys. You're the ones that had to drag this out."

Moe snarled, and then he was gone.

.

.

.

Sam rubbed at his jaw, then his eyes. The bags under his eyes were more prominent now than they had been just a few minutes ago, back in the hotel room. Just a few minutes of conversation with this new asshole demon, and Dean was feeling the stress too. His mouth was dry, and his hair was still ramrod straight.

"What are we going to do?" Dean asked. He wanted to believe that Moe was like Ramiel, in that he wanted to be left alone, but he couldn't trust a demon. He never even fully trusted Crowley, but Crowley at least had been somewhat predictable. Dean could trust that he couldn't trust Crowley.

This guy. . . Dean didn't know what to think. If he was going to kill the two of them, he would have done it, no hesitation. He seemed genuine. At least, as genuine as demons ever could be. But he didn't like this time clock Moe had put them on.

Dean began to wonder if he made a mistake. He couldn't let Moe kill Jack, not when Jack was still their best bet at saving Mom. But maybe he shouldn't have just shut out a potentially powerful ally like that. An ally with resources that Dean and Sam couldn't otherwise get their hands on.

"We have to find Jack," Sam said, sighing. He rubbed his face with his hands, and dragged his fingertips into the flesh of his cheeks. Sam groaned into his hands, before twisting them into tight fists. "We have to find Jack before he does!"

Dean swallowed. "You don't think he'll kill Jack, do you? Does he even know how?"

Sam shrugged. "I don't know. I mean, in the lore, Nephilim are actually pretty easy to kill, on account of the half-human part. It seems that they won't ever die naturally, like or old age or disease or anything, but they can be killed from an injury or something. But this. . . this is Lucifer's kid. And we haven't ever found anything that can kill Lucifer. . ."

Sam screamed again, stomping his feet into asphalt.

"Should we call him back?" Dean asked cautiously. He hated the words as he pulled them from his throat. "Tell him we changed our minds?"

Sam thought about it for a moment, biting his fist. "No," he said eventually, shaking his head. His hair was standing on end, like Albert Einstein. "I really don't want to get involved in a Prince of Hell. At least, not until we have something on our side that can kill him. Just in case."

"Like Jack?" Dean suggested.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yeah, like Jack. No, you heard him. We have to find Jack first. Just because he might not be able to kill Jack, doesn't mean he can't do something else. I don't know. I just don't know Dean. Nothing about this makes sense. I mean, at least with the other shit that's been thrown our way, we weren't going totally blind. We could always find a bit of lore here and there, or at least dig up some theories or something." Sam slapped his hands against his thighs. "We've got nothing. And I doubt the angels are gonna be any help, either, even if they didn't hate our guts, and even if they were willing to help us. Which, you know, they're not."

"What do we do then?" Dean asked.

Sam was quiet for a moment. He sighed, shoulders deflating. He gave Dean one of his looks. Dean's throat tightened.

"No," Dean said, shaking his head. "No way, not happening."

"It's our only bet."

Dean snorted. "Not even the angels or a Prince of Hell can find him, Sam! How are you going to manage it?"

"I have to," Sam said. "I guess I have better motivation than anyone else."

"What about Cas?"

"He'll have you," Sam said simply, like it was obvious, like there was no other option.

Dean bit his lip. "Yeah, and what about you? You're gonna go after this thing all by yourself?"

"I'll call Jody, or Donna, see if they can help. Being police officers, they'll have access to the best resources we can get, short of infiltrating the FBI or NSA."

Dean rubbed his jaw. His newly-cut stubble rubbed harshly against his skin. Sam was giving him the puppy dog eyes now, and it shouldn't work, not on someone Sam's age, or height; yet it still managed to send tingles down Dean's spine.

"I don't like it," Dean said eventually.

Sam huffed and shrugged. "You think I do? Our options are limited. Besides, we were going to have to look for him anyway."

Sam was right. Of course Sam was right. But Dean hated the thought of sending Sam out alone. Even if he was with either Jody or Donna, or even if he was with both of them, Dean hated it. Hell, he trusted Cas with Sam's life, but he still would rather it be him by his brother's side than anyone else, even Cas. Splitting up was always a bad idea. Dean and Sam hadn't been separated since Dean had gone off to his supposed death, to face off with Amara. And look what how that ended. Cas got angel banished, and Sam got kidnapped and tortured.

And Sam was his only anchor to sanity at the moment. Cas was comatose—Dean still couldn't shake off that weird dream, either—and Mom was fighting for her life, in an alternate dimension, with Lucifer.

God, sometimes Dean sounded crazy even to himself.

"Dean," Sam said, put-upon, now cranking up the puppy dog eyes to eleven. "I'll check in every day. I won't go anywhere without backup. I won't run into anything headfirst. I don't have a death wish here. But we are running on a clock. Look, I know you don't like it, but. . . But I think there's still a chance that Jack can be good. If he was going to destroy the World, or wreak havoc on us, wouldn't he have done it already?"

"Tell that to the bear," Dean grumbled.

"I think," Sam continued, "that he doesn't know how to control his powers. And Asmodeus is right—that makes him all the more dangerous. But it doesn't make him evil. No one knows how to kill him, so guess what they're going to try and do instead?"

Dean closed his eyes tightly. His lungs felt like they were going to burst. "They're going to try and recruit him instead."

"Exactly. Can you imagine if Hell had that sort of power? Even if Asmodeus doesn't want to bring about the Apocalypse, even if he is a business man like Crowley, he's going to do the business man part."

Dean sighed. "Which means, make as much profit as you can by spending as little as possible."

"Or, he could try and make Jack his apprentice or something. Something as powerful as Jack, something as unique as Jack—you think he's going to be okay with being second in command forever? Especially when he finds out that he's technically heir to throne."

"Damn it," Dean muttered. "Damn it!" Sam was right, and he was making sense, and Dean hated him for it. Just because Jack wasn't destroying the World right now didn't mean he wouldn't one day. And if Hell got their hands on him and tried to teach him, that was a recipe for disaster. Sam was right. They had to get to Jack before any demons did. They had to influence him before he could be converted into just another monster, into a true spawn of Lucifer.

Dean looked directly at Sam. "Morning and night," he said. "You call. You tell me where you are, and where you're going."

Sam rolled his eyes, but nodded. "I'm going to call Jody and see if I can meet her in South Dakota."

Sam pulled out his cellphone. Dean turned away and looked at Baby. He walked to the car and rested his hands against the hood, leaning all his weight forward. He heard Sam behind him.

"It's really important we find this kid now," Sam said. Dean swallowed. Calling Jack a kid was a bit of a stretch, but at the same time, it was also the truth. Dean shuddered. He didn't want to think about it. He just wanted to get back to the hospital and look after Cas.

"I'm going to grab a rental car and head up there today," Sam continued. "I'll be there before tonight." A slight pause. "Thanks, Jody. And, please, don't-don't tell Claire. We don't want to worry her."

Dean looked over his shoulder. He could tell Sam was getting chewed out, but he still thought Sam was right. He didn't want to tell Claire either. He didn't want to disappoint yet another person who was counting on him. Another person he made a promise to.

Sam put his hand on Dean's shoulder. Dean flinched at the contact. Sam was leaning forward slightly, so that he was level with Dean's height. Dean licked his lips and clenched his fists.

"You want me to drive?"

Dean shook his head. He wasn't as bad as he was yesterday. His mind was no longer trapped in a fugue. He could think rationally. At least rationally enough not to swerve into oncoming traffic. Enough that he could get Sam to the car rental shop, and himself to the hospital. He needed that anchor now. Just a few minutes' distraction. A few minutes to focus on something mundane would keep him sane.

Dean shook his head. "Nah. I can do it."

"You sure?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah. I need the break."

Sam paused. "Okay," he said. He pulled the car keys from his jacket pocket and put them in Dean's hand. The teeth of the keys bit into Dean's palm. Dean squeezed them. He sighed.

"Okay," he said. "Get in."

-0-0

 _AN: Don't mind me, I'm still screaming about Wayward Sisters! Please leave a comment if you enjoyed ^.^_


	6. Chapter 6

_AN: Thank you to everyone who reviewed! Especially guest reviewer Tiva. I'm so glad you're enjoying ^.^ Reviews keep the muse fed._

-0-0-

 _Whoever is not with me is against me_

 _And whoever does not gather with me scatters_

 _Matthew 12:30_

Chapter Six

Mary ran her fingertips along the spines of the books. Some titles she recognized from her World. Books on vampires, werewolves, witchcraft, and spell work, by a variety of authors, and in a variety of languages. The bookshelves were lined with a thick layer of dust that coated Mary's skin as she examined the books, pulling titles out, pushing them back in; searching for anything that would help her.

"There's nothing there," Bobby said. He sat in the one of the library chairs, nursing his third glass of whiskey. Mary huffed, but kept silent. She looked the shelves over and over again, ensuring there wasn't anything she was missing, something she overlooked. A first-edition Gutenberg Bible caught her attention at first, but it was useless for her needs.

The library back in her World was meticulously organized by subject and time period. Sam's work. This one was disarray, books shoved into pockets randomly and without care. Spines were cracked, pages yellowed with age, and each smelt of rot, the sort that clung to books that hadn't been opened in years. A greenish residue rubbed on Mary's palms from some of the older texts.

She scanned the titles almost mindlessly. Though she was familiar with most, she searched for anything that might even give her the slightest hope. Anything that might even have a clue to opening a portal to get her back to her World.

"Seriously, Mary," Bobby said. "You're wasting your time."  
Mary's face flushed with rage. She turned around and glared at Bobby. " _I'm_ wasting my time?" she snapped. She stormed over to Bobby and slammed her hands on the tabletop. Bobby's glass rattled. He did not react. "I'm at least doing something! I'm trying!"

Bobby sighed and rubbed his face. Mary noticed for the first time the dark circles under his eyes. "You're wasting your time," he repeated. "There's not going to be anything in any of those books. Hell, most of them are completely useless. Lot of them are just wrong. Went through one of them, said witches got their power by bathing in the blood of uncircumcised babies. Another says that vampires can be killed by garlic, and another claims that ghosts can be warded off with a simple sage blessing." Bobby huffed. "So, we both know that's a load of crock. Even if you were to find something that talks about alternate universes, chances are, it's probably going to be bupkis."

"There's a chance it could be right, though."

"Microscopic."

"Still higher than zero."

Bobby huffed. He scratched his beard. There were small, red scabs on his skin that Mary knew were flea bites. Goosebumps raised on her skin.

"Look," Bobby said. "You're still concussed. You got a goose egg the size of Canada popping out of your head. Go rest. There are spare bedrooms right down that hall." He gestured over his shoulder with his thumb, down the same corridor where the bedrooms existed in her World. "Sheets ain't washed and starched, but they're better than nothing. It's get pretty cold down here." Bobby took a sip of his whiskey. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Man, I'd give my left thumb for a working washing machine."

Mary hummed. She closed her eyes. Bobby wasn't wrong. Her head still throbbed, and sometimes the lights seemed too bright, like knives were being skewered through her eyes. "I'll sleep when I find a way home."

"You might as well accept that there isn't a way home."

Mary shook her head. "I don't believe that. I refuse to believe that." She turned back to the bookshelf. She moved her fingers slowly across the spines, sticking her nails into the small grooves that separated each book, making sure there wasn't one stuck far back, out of sight.

"Please," Bobby said. "Please stop this."

Mary just shook her head. Nothing was going to perturb her from this mission. She was getting back home. Back to her boys. She wasn't going to waste her second chance. There was still so much she had to make up for. So much she still didn't know about her boys. What was Dean's favorite color? Sam's favorite food? What did they do when they weren't hunting? What were their childhoods really like? She still could hear Toni's cold, calculated voice, stating those two awful words without any care or consideration: _child abuse._ Mary swallowed. It couldn't be true. It didn't make sense. John was a bit rough around the edges, but he'd been a Marine, and had seen awful things in Vietnam. He'd never been abusive.

But then Dean's words echoed inside her head. Telling her essentially that John died too on that bitter November night.

She wondered why neither Sam nor Dean corrected her. Why they let her go this long believing a farce. She gushed about John, over and over. She called him a good father. A chill ran down her spine now, thinking back on it; of how Dean never responded.

She blinked away tears. She couldn't focus on that now. She just needed to get home. Once she got home, she could spend energy thinking about everything else. For now, though, she re-focused back to task at hand. The books were made of all sorts of different textures. Some were made of old animal hides, others just parchment papers, and a few were large pieces of wood, with the text burned in.

Nothing even broached anything scientific, beyond the typical categorization of monsters. But she wasn't going to admit that to Bobby. She was a Winchester. They didn't give up, and they didn't admit defeat. Or admit when they were wrong.

She bit her lip. She wasn't wrong. She just hadn't found the right book yet. There was something here, she knew it in her heart. She just had to keep looking.

"Well," Bobby said eventually. It startled Mary. She looked over her shoulder at him. It had been a while since he last spoke. Maybe an hour, probably more. "I'm going to bed. Anything I dream's gotta be more entertaining than watching you pace back and forth through the same titles over and over."

"I didn't ask you to watch me," Mary said, turning back to the books.

"Forgive me if I don't exactly trust you in my home."

"If I was going to kill you, I would have done it already."

Bobby laughed humorlessly. "That wasn't what I was worried about. You might be from a different universe, but you're still Mary Campbell."

"Winchester."

Bobby shrugged. "Semantics. A name's just a name. It don't change nothing. You can polish a turd till it shines, it's still a turd."

"Are you calling me a piece of shit?"

"I'm saying," Bobby stood up and walked so that he was beside Mary. He put a gentle hand on her shoulder. Mary could feel his callouses through her clothing. She looked at Bobby, and saw war in his eyes. But there was still gentleness. "It don't matter what I call you, or what you call yourself. Hell, it seems it don't matter where we come from. It seems that there's something inside us that makes us who we are. Something that transcends all these other universes. Mary—my Mary—she wouldn't have given up, either. Can't even begin to recall how many stupid, hopeless cases we went on because she believed there was a way around to solve it."

"How many times was she right?"

Bobby swallowed. He took his hand away. His eyes darkened, the gentleness disappearing. "She was right until she wasn't. It only takes one mistake. One stupid, careless mistake. And unfortunately, it doesn't matter how many times you're right. It only matters the time you aren't. So you can keep holding onto that anything goes attitude. Hell, keeping holding onto the mindset that you know everything, you're always right, blah, blah, blah. But I want nothing to do with it. 'Cause you're just going to get yourself killed. Again." The air weighed down on Mary's shoulders like lead as she processed Bobby's words. Bobby's eyes were glassy, and Mary knew that it wasn't from the alcohol. "Good night, Mary," Bobby said. He turned around and stalked down the hallway, disappearing.

Mary stood in front of the bookshelf, hands shaking. Despite Bobby's heavy words, her mind was already made up. She couldn't stay here. And somewhere in here, in one of these books, there was the key to getting her back home. She couldn't explain. And Bobby wouldn't listen to her anyway. But in her heart, she knew. The answer was here somewhere.

"Gotta have faith, Mary," she muttered to herself. She walked to the first bookshelf. She stood on her tiptoes, and pulled the first book on the top shelf. She took it to the table and sat down. The cover read _Magical Herbs: Properties and Identification for Spell Work._ Mary sighed, and stared at the bottle of whiskey longingly before she opened the book.

"Chapter one."

.

.

.

"Goddamnit," Bobby said, slamming his fist down on the table. Mary jumped and yelped. Once she realized it was only Bobby, her adrenaline came crashing down, and she began to asses. Her mouth was dry. Her head and chest hurt like a bitch. Her eyes were sore. She pressed her fingers to her temples and groaned.

"I told you to go to bed," Bobby snapped.

Mary peeled her eyes open. Her eyes adjusted slowly. At first all she saw was a blur of colors. Browns, reds, blacks, and greens. Slowly shapes came into focus. The table. The mountain of books. The whiskey bottle. Bobby's angry face, beet red.

"Morning," Mary said, forcing a grin.

Bobby looked at the stack of books. Mary followed. She had gone[HB1] through about thirty books so far, just a dent in the total collection. She hadn't even finished the top shelf she started on. She went through book after book, looking for any minute detail that would help her. She hadn't been successful. She read about plant types, types of animals used in rituals, different saints, and of course the usual monster biology books. Bobby had been right about those—they were wrong. She felt pity for the poor bastard that thought werewolves could be killed with a wooden stake.

"You're not going to give this up, are ya?" Bobby asked. Mary wasn't positive—she was tired, mentally fatigued, and hurting more than she'd ever hurt before—but she thought he sounded sad.

Mary shook her head. "Can't," she said. Her voice was scratchy. Her throat felt like it was lined with sandpaper. "My boys. Have to find them."

"How 'bout you focus on yourself for a bit? Get to bed."

Mary shook her head. She tried to focus on the book in front of her. It was about moon phases and rituals. At least she thought that's what it was about. The words blurred together. Some of them didn't even look like real words, and she stared at them blankly. They might as well have been in Farsi for all she understood them.

Bobby reached out and pulled the book away from her. He slammed it shut. Mary's lips curled over her teeth and she turned to yell at Bobby—but when she saw his face, the words were lost in her throat. Bobby's demeanor had changed yet again. Concern was etched into the lines of his face, and the bags under his eyes seemed more prominent than they had been last night. He didn't look like he slept at all.

"You're killing yourself, Mary," Bobby said quietly. "You're definitely not going to get back home if you die here."

Mary's throat tightened.

"Don't tell me you aren't hurting. I know you are. I also know there's not anything we can. That," he pointed to the whiskey bottle, "helps for a little bit. It's a quick fix. But it doesn't actually help any in the long run. All we got here is sleep. You're running on fumes. You know what happens then, don'tcha? You been a hunter all your life." Bobby stared at her, gaze eating through her flesh to her soul. Her jaw clenched.

"Mistakes get made," she said. Bobby raised his eyebrow. "Stupid mistakes are made."

"Damn straight."

Mary sighed and rested her face in her arms. Bobby rubbed in between her shoulders. "Get some rest, Mary. I'll look through the books."

Mary raised her head. "Thought you weren't going to have any part in this."

"Guess you didn't leave me no choice if I want to keep my sanity intact. Besides," Bobby shrugged. "With two Lucifer's out there, I ain't leaving this place anytime soon. Guess I don't have anything better to do. _Young and the Restless_ ain't ever comin' back on air."

Mary smiled despite herself. "You watched soap operas?"

"Is that a problem?"

"No," Mary said, smiling, with a gentle shrug. "Just didn't take you for the type."

Bobby hummed. "Tell you what though, at least _Doctor Sexy_ never got to continue."

Mary recognized that show. Sam was teasing Dean about it. She hadn't understood, at first. She'd been able to decipher that it was a television show, but she didn't get what the big deal about it was. When she asked, Sam just laughed and looked at Dean. "Yeah, Dean, tell her," Sam said, which resulted in Dean flipping Sam the bird and telling him to piss off.

"What was wrong with it?"

"Most contrite piece of trash ever produced. I swear, it made reality TV look like cinematic genius." Bobby went to the bookshelf and grabbed the next book in sequence. It was a heavy tome written in Archaic English. He dropped it onto the table and sat down. He opened it and his eyes began to scan the pages.

Mary watched him for a few minutes. Bobby glared at her and made a shooing gesture. "Get," he said. "First door on the right's free."

Mary stood up. She tilted at first. The World went sideways. She grabbed onto the edge of the table to steady herself. She sighed and focused on her breathing. Deep inhale, deep exhale. She filled their lungs to their capacity, never minding the ache of her busted ribs, and then exhaled all the way. She repeated the process over and over again until the vertigo passed.

"You all right?"

Mary nodded. She swallowed. Her throat was dry, and her stomach ached. For the first time, she realized that she was hungry. But there wasn't anything to do about that now. She was sure that even if she did try to eat, she would only get sick. Alcohol and empty stomachs weren't a good combination, ever. If Bobby was worried about her wasting water, she could only imagine how pissed he'd be at wasting food.

She staggered down the hall. Down the small steps that separated the library from what her boys called the War Room, that had the map table and all the ancient computers, the giant slabs of metal, with wires and knobs. In her World, the lights blinked in a pattern, and beeping sounds were emitted from somewhere. These, though, were quiet. No lights, no sounds. Just useless hunks of metal wasting space. There was another set of stairs that led up to the hallway of bedrooms. She found her way to the room Bobby mentioned. She waited outside the door for a moment. In her World, this was Dean's room.

Mary's hands clenched before she pushed the door open. There was a bed with a blanket thrown carelessly on top. A desk was pushed against the left wall with nothing on it.

That was it. The room was otherwise bare. No sign of life existed within. Dean's room was full of character and personality. Desk and nightstands were cluttered with memorabilia. His walls were pinned with weaponry. It felt like a bedroom.

This felt like a prison cell.

Mary stepped inside and closed the door behind her. She toed off her shoes and pulled off her jacket. She tossed it to the corner and fell face first onto the bed. The mattress was firm. Not Dean's fancy memory foam, but the original military cot that had been in her room. It was thin and creaked every time she moved, but she was too hurt to care. She closed her eyes.

.

.

.

She did feel better when she woke up. Not perfect, but her mind was no longer fatigued, and the throbbing in her head ceased and left behind only soreness. She pushed herself to her feet and left the bedroom, going back to the library. She felt better now. Ready to help Bobby find a way back home.

"Look who's alive," Bobby said. He was in the same place Mary had last seen him, though the stack of books had grown, at least doubling in size.

"How long was I asleep?" Mary asked, rubbing the crust out of her eyes.

"'Bout twenty-four hours."

"What?"

Bobby nodded. He glanced at a watch on his wrist. "At least, I think it's been twenty-four hours. The sun hasn't shone in a long, long time. All I got to go on is this thing. Not sure if it still keeps time right, but an hour's an hour."

"I'm sorry," Mary said, slinking back down into the chair. "You should've woke me, I would've helped you."

Bobby shook his head. "Don't worry about it," he said. "You needed your rest." His attention went back to the book in front of him. Mary watched him for a moment. She bit her lip.

"What have you found?"

"Nothing." Bobby didn't even look at her. "Unless you want to know how to ward Brownies out of your home."

"Like the elves?"

"Tiny, annoying little elves. Might actually be useful, actually. Those things are harder to get rid of than bed bugs." Bobby slammed his book shut and pushed it to the stack. "But, no. Nothing that helps your case."

"Well, we just haven't found it yet."

Bobby grumbled. He stood up, his chair scraping against the wood floor. "I'll make some grub. If we're going to be stuck here, we might as well enjoy the finer things in life."

"Which are?"

"Whiskey and uncooked soup. Stove went out a while back, but we can't exactly light a fire in this place. And you _definitely_ don't want to light one outside. Might as well be putting a neon sign on your head that says, "Angels, come kill me now!"" Bobby walked towards the kitchen, and Mary kept thumbing through the book.

She didn't know how long Bobby was gone, but when he came back, he was carrying two bowls of tomato soup.

"Bon appetit," he said.

"Thanks," Mary said, even though her stomach did a flip looking at the soup. It was thick, and it stuck to the plastic spoon. She made a face.

"Don't worry," Bobby said, scarfing down the meal. He was already half done with his bowl. "Spoon's clean. Brand new, actually. One of the few things brand new. Costco bulk packs are the real angels here."

Mary forced a bite down. It felt like slime as it slid down her throat. Her stomach shuddered, and it sat heavily in her gut like a rock. She forced another bite. It wasn't delicious, but it wasn't even close to the worst thing she'd ever eaten. Growing up as a hunter, she'd be forced to eat all sorts of questionable substances. She had way too much Spam and eggs as a child on the road. Diners made good pies and the best coffee, but anything else, she was wary of.

They ate in silence. And then they got back to work.

The next book Mary flipped through was exclusively on angels. She ran her fingers gently over the paper. The book was old, and the paper was thin and brittle. The text was written in an elegant hand, oil ink with a quill. The author had sketched out what apparently was an angel's celestial form—that's what he called it, at least. It was like a nebulous. There was no defined shape. It was skinny and tall, looming over the human-like figure standing in the bottom corner. The shape was bent over the human, long, skeletal hands at its side. The figure was filled in with the black ink. It didn't have a face. Wings protruded from its back. Those had the most detail of anything in the picture. The figure had six of them, broken into three pairs. The top pair was folded up towards the sky, the bottom one folded down to the ground, and the middle pair branched straight out. Each feather was drawn out and labeled.

Mary ran her fingertips over the wings. The author had marked the different types. Primaries, secondaries, tertiaries, alulas. The bones were also labeled. It seemed that angel wings had the same bones as a human arm: humerus, radius, ulna. Mary swallowed. Her eyes scanned the text off the other page.

 _Anatomy of an Angel, as shown to me in a vision._

The chapter explained that only a handful of people were able to perceive an angel's true form. Anyone else would be struck blind at the sight. That was why angels had to obtain human vessels to interact with people on Earth.

There was a chapter on language and spell work. One on their weaknesses and powers. She never would have imagined anything capable of having this sort of power. When she was a hunter, demons were the most powerful and terrifying things to exist. But as she continued reading, she began to understand why Bobby was so wary and frightened of the angels battling outside. Healing, teleportation, near immortality weren't even the most terrifying aspects. According to this book, angels could form thunderstorms, travel back in time, and kill with a touch.

She thought of Castiel sitting in the kitchen, drinking coffee with the local newspaper out in front of him, doing the crossword.

She was tempted to shove the book to the side right then and move onto something else. It hurt too much. The wound was still too fresh.

But she was a hunter. They worked through their pain. She moved onto the next chapter, and the one after that, and the one after that, in mutual silence with Bobby.

The second to last chapter in the book was titled "Angelic Weapons." Mary knew a little about angel blades. Ketch had a few. That wasn't interesting to her. What caught her attention was the sub-chapter "Heavenly Weapons."

As she read, her adrenaline began to rush. Her heart began to beat twice as fast, and her blood ran hot. She looked up at Bobby, a smile cutting her face. Bobby caught her staring after a moment.

"What?" he asked.

"I've got it," she said, unable to stop smiling. She knew it! "I know how to get back home."

Bobby closed his book and peered to look at hers. Mary slide it over to him and pointed.

"Check this out," she said. "The Staff of Moses."

Bobby frowned. "Yeah, what about it?"

"According to this book, it can summon any of the Ten Plagues of Egypt."

Bobby snorted. "How's that what you're looking for? We don't need our water turning to blood, and we definitely don't need no first borns being slaughtered."

Mary shook her head. "It can do more than that, though. This book says it has the power of God. Surely God would be able to jump between Worlds, right?"

"Okay," Bobby sighed. He shoved his book off the side. "So let's say this thing does exist. How the hell are we even going to find it?"

"We need to find an angel," she said. "Not just any angel, either. This book says that it's best for an Archangel to wield it—they're more powerful."  
Bobby slammed his hand down on the table. "Are you listening to yourself, woman? An Archangel? Have you forgotten that we've got two of them duking it out right now, just on the other side of that door?"

"What about Gabriel?" Mary asked.

Bobby's brows pinched. "Gabriel? What about him?"

"It's been awhile since I've been in Sunday School," Mary said. "But he was God's messenger, right? He told the news about Jesus."

"I ain't seen hide nor tail of Gabriel. Haven't even heard of him. If he's alive, he ain't keen on making it known."

"Then we'll have to lure him out," Mary said. She was devising plans in her head. Someone had to know where Gabriel was. A person, a demon, even another angel. No one could stay hidden forever, especially in war. He was out there somewhere. And she was going to find him. She met Bobby's eye. "I was right about there being something in this library that could help me. I know now that there is a weapon that can get me back home."

"Reading about it is a hell of a different league than finding it. You realize this is a suicide mission, don't you? The minute you step out that door, there ain't a guarantee that you'll come back. Here there's enough supplies to last us a long while."

Mary shook her head. "But that's not living," she said. She looked around the bunker. Bile rose in her throat. She thought of what Ketch and Toni had done to her, how they made her hurt her boys. How Ketch locked them in the bunker and cut off the oxygen. He called it a tomb. He was right. "What are our days going to be made of? Waking up, eating cold soup, and going back to bed? That's not living. You said it yourself. Survival for survival's sake isn't right. We need something to live for." She pushed her chair back and stood up. "If I stay here, I am going to die."

"And if you leave?"

"Then I _might_ die. I have better chances out there than in here." She swallowed and looked Bobby straight in the eye, hardening her gaze. "You don't have to come with me. If this is how you want to die, fine." She shrugged. "But I am going to try."

Bobby clicked his tongue. "I already watched you die once," he said. "I'm not doing it again."

Mary blinked. Her throat swelled. "You're wrong," she said. "I am not your Mary. I am me. And I am not going to roll over and die here when I have a chance to get back to my boys." She took a step back. "Thank you for everything, Bobby. I appreciate it. I won't forget you."

She turned on her heels and took the first step on the large staircase.

* * *

[HB1]


	7. Chapter 7

_TW: Mirror body horror in this one, folks._

-0-0-

 _Maybe we hurt who we love the most_

 _Maybe it's all we can stand_

 _Maybe we walk through the world as ghosts_

 _Break my own heart before you can_

-Hearts Content, Brandi Carlile

Chapter Seven

Dean was back in the Murky Place. He was more prepared this time. The emptiness wasn't as intimidating. The silence wasn't as terrifying. It was almost familiar.

He began to look for Castiel.

"Cas?" he called. It was still difficult to move. It felt like he was underwater, slugging against a current. He looked all around. In front of him, behind him, and on every side, but there was nothing. "Castiel?" His voice was lost in the emptiness in front of him, not even being carried away, but just dying as soon as the word left his mouth, right there on his lips.

There was no flash of beige. There was nothing.

Dean kept walking. He hummed the tune of _Hey Jude_.

Again, he lost track of time and of how far he walked. It could have been for years, and he wasn't ever sure if he was really making progress because everything looked the same-but eventually, he caught sight of that beautiful visage, that ugly ass tan trench coat. Dean still despised the newer one. It looked like a potato sack.

"Cas," Dean breathed. He wasn't going to mess it up this time. Red eyes or not, he wasn't going to run away. "Hey, buddy." Dean stood by him and put his hand on Cas's shoulder. Cas was still looking down at nothing.

Dean gently shook him. "Hey. Hey, look at me. Please?"

Cas didn't move. Dean's throat swelled, but something else caught his eye. He looked up. In front of them was a group of people. Ten of them, standing ramrod straight, looking straight ahead. There was one on the other side of them. Zachariah. Dean stiffened. And then he noticed that among the group of ten was Castiel.

Not the Castiel standing next to him. Dean's hand was still on that one, and he was solid under Dean's touch.

The Castiel in line was younger. He held himself stiffly. It reminded Dean of the Cas he first met.

"What the hell is going on?" Dean muttered.

"Soldiers," Zachariah said. His face alone made Dean queasy. He still hated this douchebag, never mind that he'd been dead for years now. "Demons are at our Gates. We must fight them off. We mustn't let a single one breach the barrier of our realms. The result, as you know, would be quite catastrophic."

Dean looked at his Cas, the one standing next to him. His Cas didn't appear to be taking notice of anything that was happening. Dean's attention was drawn back to the scene in front of him. His interest was piqued.

"Remember the most important thing," Zachariah prompted.

"Protect Heaven," the angels said in perfect unison, "at all costs."

Dean swallowed. "Well, this is starting to get creepy," he said. "Little too 1984, eh, Cas?" Dean nudged his Cas beside him. Cas didn't respond.

"Exactly," Zachariah continued, forcing Dean's attention in that direction. "There are weapons and secrets held behind our Gates that we must protect. If they were to fall into the wrong hands, it would spell out disaster for Heaven and all angels. And remember, everyone reports to Loriel." Zachariah gestured to the tall angel with blonde hair. There was a pause. Zachariah's face flushed in anger. "Well? What are you waiting for? Go!"

The ten angels turned around and began to walk. The only one Dean recognized was Castiel. And this must have been a long time ago. This Castiel was stone-faced and determined. Dean kept a tight grip on his Cas.

The vision walked in front of him. The demons appeared. The angels were outnumbered. Dean didn't have time to count how many demons there were—everything was moving so fast, swords clashing, blood flying. The vision danced around him, a swirling, twisted, myriad of colors and violence. Demons dropped dead one at a time, the yellow light shining in all directions at intervals, screams filling the empty space. Dean kept his eyes on Castiel, who fought and ducked and parried like it was a dance. One after the other, he took out the demons, leaving bodies behind him like flies, not even bothering to look behind him, to make sure it was corpses he left in his wake.

"Go, Cas!" Dean cheered.

Two demons ganged up on Castiel, one coming at him from behind. Dean bit his lip and was prepared to scream, but Castiel was unfazed. He ducked, missing the blow from the demon behind him, and he spun, slashing the demon at his front, and then, circled, getting the one behind him. He stood to his full height, chest heaving, before he ran off to fight with another demon, completely ignoring the dead husks he created.

An angel died, but Castiel didn't react, if he noticed at all. He was too engrossed in his own battle. The demons kept coming. It seemed like they would never stop. One after the other after the other, and Castiel took down every one of them, snarling like an animal. He took a few hits that had Dean gnashing his teeth together, but Castiel was unfazed by the blood and grace dripping from wounds on his arms and torso.

"Give it up!" one of the angels cried. "You will never be victorious!"

"Our Master will be raised one day," the demon Castiel was sparring with spat.

"That day is not today," Castiel said, stabbing the demon. Castiel twisted the knife before he pulled it out, and the demon's corpse fell on Castiel's feet. It was the first time Castiel stared at such a thing.

It kept going. Another angel died. And another. But the angels were still winning, killing demon after demon, turning on the next one before corpses even finished forming, smoke still coiling from the empty mouths. And eventually the demons began to pull back.

"This isn't over, angels," one of the demons said. "Lucifer will rise, and you will all bow at his feet and beg for mercy."

"Yeah!" Dean cried. "Kick their scaly asses!"

And then Dean heard it; a sound that still resonated in his nightmares, one he'd know anywhere. He'd never be able to forget it. It was a hellhound growl. Dean couldn't see the hound except for its yellow eyes. It was behind Castiel, sneaking up on him. Castiel was battling two demons at once, swords clashing together and forming lightning. He didn't see it.

"Cas, look out!"

The hellhound jumped, snagging Castiel from behind, pulling him to the ground. Castiel screamed and it was the worst sound Dean had ever heard. Blood poured like a faucet, spraying wildly. It spewed back onto the hound, staining its fur. It didn't become completely visible, but the blood did stain enough that Dean could tell where the hound stood, and estimate its size. It had to be as big as a minivan.

Dean's heart leaped up into his throat. Coming out of Castiel's back were wings. And one of them was matted with blood, the bone sticking out at a right angle, at the very tip. The hound was still on top of Castiel, teeth clamped down onto Castiel's wing. The hound began to drag Castiel across the ground. Blood smeared on the ground, one long, red line. Yellow foam bubbled out of the hound's mouth. Castiel struggled like a worm on a hook. Kicking, snarling, he waved his blade behind him, trying to catch the hound. Castiel swung his blade behind him and caught the hound near his throat. The hound howled in agony, a high pitched squeal that echoed in Dean's ears. Blood rained down on Castiel, while two angels came up and killed the last of the demons. The hound dropped beside Castiel, blood gushing from its throat, spilling hotly in every direction. It spasmed, whining, and then it died.

For a moment, all was silent.

And then Castiel's pained groans filled the space. It was horrible. Dean's teeth ached at the sound, and he had to cover his mouth. There was so much blood. It covered Castiel's face, matted in his hair and feathers in thick, black, sluggish globs. Castiel bit down on his lip, but it did nothing to stifle the screams that tore from his throat.

"Castiel," one of the angels said. "What happened?"

"He's been bit," the other angel said. The two looked at each other. Their faces were blank slates. No worry, no concern.

"By the hound?"

Castiel writhed on the ground, almost like in a seizure. Dean could only look on in horror. It was like his feet were glued in place. "Brothers, help me!"

Dean's heart cracked down the middle. He gasped and grabbed onto his Cas with his other arm. This Cas beside him was the only anchor to his sanity.

The angels looked at one another. They were covered in slashes, blood and grace shining on their skin. Two other angels waited cautiously in the back.

"Denziel, please," Castiel gasped, back arching in spasms. His white feathers were quickly overtaken by the blood. Dean could see a red light arching up the wing, like a thin bolt of lightning, towards the junction that met at Castiel's back.

"Castiel, you know the dangers of hound venom," the angel, Denziel, said. He looked to the angel by his side. "Call the Rit Zien."

"No!" Castiel screamed. He gaped again, fingers clenching. "No, please. Brother, have mercy."

"This is mercy," Denziel said. "You're in pain. The Rit Zien will make sure it doesn't hurt."

Castiel clenched his teeth together and shook his head. "I don't want to die." It was barely a whisper.

"Don't waste the effort," one of the angels in the back said. It was the blonde one, Loriel. The guy in charge. "By the time we bring a Rit Zien over here, the venom will have taken its course."

"What do you suggest we do then, Loriel?"

"Leave him," Loriel said. "We've completed our mission. It is time to report back to Zachariah."

Dean stared at the angel agape. He couldn't be serious. He looked to his Cas. His Cas still hadn't moved. His eyes were still cast downwards. Between that and the other Castiel, the one in agony, Dean didn't know which was worse.

"Help me," Castiel said in between pained breaths.

Something changed in Denziel's face. It was minute, but Dean saw it. Just a slight twitch of his face. He looked between Castiel and Loriel.

"Now, Denziel," Loriel snapped. "Have you forgotten that I am the captain? You report to me! Our mission is done. Leave him."  
Denziel swallowed. Castiel stared at him, wide-eyed and pale. "I'm sorry," Denziel said. Castiel's eyes widened. He reached out towards Denziel, but Denziel moved out of the way, pulling his hand to the opposite side.

All the angels walked. Not one of them even looked at Castiel as they left. They left him there, soaked in blood, amidst the bodies of demons, the hound, and the other angels. Castiel twisted and groaned. The red line that went up his wing pounded and flashed rhythmically, like a pulse.

Castiel struggled to push himself to his knees. It took him five tries, arms shaking each time he put his weight on them. The good wing moved easily behind him, but the bitten one hung limp from his shoulder. He reached behind him and pulled the wing tip around to his front. He bit his lip, but sound still escaped through his teeth. Dean winced in sympathy.

The bite wound had a thick, yellow substance surrounding it. Blood matted his feathers together. Castiel was gasping. He reached for his angel blade with his free hand.

Dean saw what Castiel was going to do and he cursed.

Castiel pressed his fingers around the wound. He was still groaning, and the sounds were the most awful thing Dean had heard. Castiel moved his fingers around the wound, feeling and sifting through the bloodied feathers. Castiel licked his lips.

And he stabbed the blade into his wingtip, about a foot up.

Dean clamped his eyes shut. "Jesus," he cried. And then he opened one eye, and slowly, the other. Castiel's shoulders were trembling. His good wing was flapping wildly, but it made no wind, lost in the vacuum of this place. Castiel coughed, and blood dripped down his chin. Dean tightened his grip into the folds of the other Cas.

Castiel waited for a while. He swallowed. His eyes were feverish. He pulled the blade down across his wing, trembling the entire time. Dean couldn't watch, but he had to. He couldn't abandon Castiel, not in his pain, not like his brothers had.

Anger boiled in his blood at those other angels, those assholes, that would just leave Castiel here, in agony. He asked for their help and they left him. Or they were just going to have him put down, ignoring his pleas totally. He could still hear Castiel's quiet, pained, "I don't want to die," echoing in his brain. It was stuck there. And the other angels still left him like this.

God, he hated angels. He hated them so much.

When Castiel hit the bone, it sounded like nails on chalk board. Dean almost let go of his Cas to cover his ears, but he found he couldn't. He wouldn't dare let go of his Cas.

Castiel was growing even paler, but he was almost done. He ripped through the infected flesh, severing the part from his wing. His bone stuck out and Dean dry heaved. He had to look away from that. He was sure the only reason he didn't throw up was because of wherever he was, normal physics didn't seem to apply.

Castiel fell forward on his face, body shuddering. Dean couldn't help but stare at that infected, cut away piece of flesh. It shriveled up and blackened, folding in on itself.

Castiel forced himself onto his side. His left wing was now at least a foot shorter than his right, the feather ends frayed and still dripping. The bleeding changed to a sluggish pace. Dean swallowed to try and quell the nausea.

Castiel laid there for a while. His color slowly returned, blue grace emitting from the exposed bone. Dean could _hear_ the tendons and muscle stitching back together. Castiel's breathing eventually began to even out, though it was still loud. If it weren't for the sounds coming out his mouth, he would blend in with the bodies scattered around him. Castiel wiped some of the blood off his face. It was still in his hair.

Castiel pushed himself to his feet, slowly and clumsily. He took a step and immediately stumbled, a heavy limp on his left side. He wasn't used to the weight—his right side was now much heavier than his left, and the difference made it difficult for him to balance. His good wing flared all the way out, and Dean was struck in awe. It came right in front of his face, less than an inch away from touching him. His breath brushed against the feathered ends.

The wing was magnificent. Dean had seen the shadows several times—and he still had the awful image of those wings seared into the mud at the forefront of his mind—but he had never seen real, tangible angel wings. Not like this.

Dean slowly freed one hand from his Cas's coat and reached out cautiously. He skimmed his fingertips over the edge of the wing. It felt like silk.

Castiel began to walk again, snapping his wing out from Dean's touch. Dean could only watch as Castiel struggled to walk, his limp ever present and never improving. Dean couldn't tear his eyes away from the mangled left wing. He thought back to all the times he had seen the shadows. Had the left wing been shorter in those? His mind was still reeling, horrified and unbelievably impressed at the same time, that Castiel amputated his own infected flesh.

Zachariah slowly came back into the picture. His back was turned. Castiel's face was flushed, his chest heaving, wings trembling. Dean didn't know how he was even still conscious, much less upright and walking.

"Zachariah!" Castiel called.

Zachariah turned around, shock and horror drawn into his face. He walked closer to Castiel.

"Castiel, is that you?"

"Brother, help me," Castiel pleaded. It was even worse to hear the second time. Castiel had reached the last of his strength. He collapsed to his knees and stared up at Zachariah.

"Castiel? Loriel told me you were dead! What happened?"

"A hound," Castiel gasped out. He reached a hand out towards Zachariah's arm. Zachariah stepped back and looked down at Castiel studiously. His eyes trailed over Castiel's mangled wing for a long time.

"You were bitten by a hound?"

Castiel nodded, jaw clenched tight, in too much pain to speak. Zachariah circled Castiel, assessing every wound, every small blurb of grace shining on his skin. Zachariah stopped once he was back in front, facing Castiel.

"You did that?" Zachariah asked, gesturing to Castiel's wing.

Castiel nodded again.

"Hmm," Zachariah said. Dean wanted to stalk over to him and beat that smug look right off his face. "Why would Loriel tell me you were dead if you weren't?"

Castiel had enough energy to scowl. Dean had never been happier to see such rage burning in Castiel's eyes.

"Loriel _left_ me," Castiel snapped. "I refused the Rit Zien."

Zachariah just stared at Castiel. "Why would you do that?"

Castiel winced. His left wing was still trembling, bloody feathers falling down into a pile beside him. Zachariah clicked his tongue.

"I must say, Castiel, I am impressed. Not many angels would be able to do what you have done. Many others would have taken the Rit Zien. Hound venom is an excruciating way to die. It's antithetical to our grace. Like mixing oil and water."

"I hadn't noticed," Castiel groaned.

Zachariah's mouth twitched at the corners.

"We need more angels like you, Castiel. Angels who are willing to fight for Heaven, at all costs. Angels who wouldn't let something like hound venom steal their dying breath."

Castiel's gasping breaths were like knives driving into Dean's ears.

Zachariah smiled this time. A real, wide smile. It still sent shivers down Dean's spine. There was nothing happy in that smile. It was like a snake's.

"Castiel," Zachariah said, "how would you like to be the captain of your very own garrison?"

.

.

.

Dean jolted awake. The bright, florescent hospital lights burned his eyes, and he had to immediately shut them again, patterns dancing under his eyelids. His mouth was dry, and he had a kink in his neck. The various monitors were beeping in monotonous patterns.

Dean opened his eyes, slowly adjusting to the environment. He had fallen asleep in an uncomfortable chair, head tilted over the back. Dean rubbed the back of his neck and yawned. He felt like he'd been hit by a train.

Colors and shapes eventually came into focus. Cas was still curled on the bed, unmoving, the ventilator clicking every few moments. Dean's eyes brushed over everything. Nothing had changed. There were still the IVs, and heart monitors, and catheters, and the circulation cuffs. Dean stared at Cas for a moment, taking everything in.

Sam had been gone for three days now. At his morning check in, he'd told Dean that he and Jody were following a lead in Indiana and they'd be there by that evening. Meanwhile, Dean had spent every moment in Cas's room, from the crack of dawn until they kicked him out at shift rotation. Dr. Whitaker came by every few hours, in between the series of nurses that performed the standard checkup routines, but there wasn't really anything he could tell Dean. Cas's vitals and bloodwork were on the low end, but they were holding steady. He gave Dean the usual, 'don't give up hope' speech that Dean hated, but he responded with a smile anyway, just to get the guy to shut up and go away.

But Dr. Whitaker and the nurses were nice enough to let him stay. He didn't want to antagonize anyone. He knew how easily it would be for them to bar Dean from seeing Cas at all, and he didn't want that. He needed to be by Cas's side.

So, he'd wake up, grab something barely edible from the McDonald's drive-thru, scarf it down in the car in the hospital parking lot, and he'd head up to Cas's room, where he'd wait and watch until they kicked him out at eight pm precisely.

It was only the second time he had dreamed of the Murky Place, but Dean was already weary of them. There was something about them that made his skin crawl. Dean looked at Cas. His hair was sticking up from being pressed against the pillow. He looked like he did years ago, when he and Dean first met, and Cas was still something mysterious and untouchable.

Dean's mind flashed to the dream. Of Cas sawing off pieces of himself to live. He swallowed uncomfortably. He tugged at his memories, each time he'd seen Cas's wing shadows, but he couldn't recall if the left had been shorter than the right.

And his mind was stuck on the flippancy of the other angels. Denziel was a pathetic coward, and Loriel was just another dick with wings, one Dean would love to get a hold of, just to make it up to Cas. And of course, Zachariah. Uncaring, dismissive, and a sicker son of a bitch than Dean had originally thought. What Dean would give to kill him a second time.

Dean glanced down at his watch. It was a quarter to eight. They'd be kicking him out any minute now. But Dean was going to stay until they came through that door. He wasn't going to lose a single minute he had with Cas.

He could still hear the sound of Castiel sawing off his flesh, the desperation in his throat as he begged the other angels to help him, and was ignored.

And then there was the other Cas. The one with the red eyes, that didn't speak. Dean swallowed. He stood to his feet and stretched, working out the kinks in his back and neck. Dean walked up the railing of the bed. He hesitated, hand hanging by his side. He wanted to reach out and touch Cas, pat down his hair, _something_. But there were so many wires and tubes, Dean was afraid of messing something up, something important.

Dean sighed. "So Cas, is that my dream or yours?"

Cas, unsurprisingly, didn't answer.

Dean couldn't shake off the uneasiness.

.

.

.

The night nurse kicked him out right on schedule. Dean loitered in the hallway for a little bit, watching the nurses at their station, listening to all the beeps of the different machinery in all the different rooms.

There was a small table with a coffee maker, sugar, and cream. Dean made himself a cup. It tasted like liquid shit, and it wasn't even hot, but Dean forced it down anyway, hoping the caffeine boost would save his sanity for the drive back to the motel. He shuddered as it hit his stomach.

Sam called him shortly after, letting him know that he and Jody made it to Indiana. They were going to check into a motel and begin their investigation in the morning. Sam wasn't sure of the validity of their lead, but it was all they had so far, and they had to at least see if anything panned out.

"How's Cas doing?" Sam asked after a dilated pause.

Dean stared at the door to Cas's room. "Same. No better, no worse."

Sam sighed. "It'll probably just take some time. A wound like that would be devastating to anyone under normal circumstances."

Dean hummed. He couldn't be sure of anything, not until he got confirmation from Cas himself, but he got what Sam was saying. The angel part of Cas had died, but somehow, he held onto the human part of him. He thought of what Dr. Whitaker said. How nothing was more powerful than the human spirit. If there was anyone with a resilient spirit, it was Cas. Still, the grace bit probably helped, at least a little, Dean thought. If Cas hadn't been an angel, if he'd been just a regular Joe Schmoo, he'd probably be dead.

Dean didn't want to focus on that. On the what-ifs. It would just drive him crazier than he already was. Cas was alive. That was all that mattered. Anything else was a cake walk. They'd jump those hurdles as they came upon them.

"You okay?" Sam asked.

"Just peachy," Dean replied. He took another sip of the horrid coffee. He wondered if they brewed it with sewage.

"Dean," Sam snapped. "No more lies, right?"

Dean rolled his eyes. They'd made that promise before. It always ended the same. "Yeah." He swallowed. "Right. I just haven't been sleeping well."

"I can imagine."

Dean pursed his lips. "I've been having these weird dreams," he said.

"Weird how? Psychic vision weird?"

"No," Dean said. "I don't think so, at least. Actually, these are the opposite."

"I'm not following."

"I think I'm seeing the past. Cas's past."

Sam was quiet for a moment. "You sure?"

"No," Dean said. "I mean, these could just be random dreams. Worry dreams. But, I don't know. They feel real." The other Cas felt real under his steady grip. The scene had seemed real.

"How many have you had?"

"Just two," Dean said. "I don't know. They might be nothing."

"They might be," Sam said. "Let me know if you have any more."

"Okay." Dean refilled his coffee cup. He needed the caffeine more than he hated the taste. "Call me in the morning."

"Night jerk."

"Bitch," Dean said, and he hung up the phone.

"Excuse me?" a new voice said. Someone tapped Dean on his shoulder. Dean groaned and rolled his eyes. It was probably a nurse, going to yell at him for stealing their shitty coffee. Or for being too loud on the phone. Whatever it was, Dean was not in the mood for this shit. He turned around, and the breath was knocked out his lungs.

"You're Dean Winchester, aren't you?"

The coffee cup slipped out of Dean's hand and landed right on his foot. Hot coffee splashed up onto his calf, but he barely felt it. The woman smiled at him expectantly.

"Lisa," Dean gasped. He swallowed. "Uh, hi."

-0-0-

 _Anyone see that coming? ;P_

 _Reviews are love!_


	8. Chapter 8

_Leave me out with the waste_

 _This is not what I do_

 _It's the wrong kind of place_

 _To be cheating on you_

 _It's the wrong time_

 _But she's pulling me through_

 _It's a small crime_

 _And I've got no excuse_

-9 Crimes, Damien Rice

Chapter Eight

"Oh," Lisa said, looking at the spilt coffee. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to startle you." She bent down.

"No, no, I got it," Dean said, grabbing a handful of napkins off the counter. He knelt down and wiped up the spilt coffee. It soaked straight through the napkins. Lisa picked up the coffee cup. They stood up and stared at one another.

Lisa Braden looked just as Dean remembered. Tanned, dark brown eyes, and dark hair. There were some signs of aging. Graying at the very tips of her roots, small little crows' feet at the edges of her eyes, but her smile was still wide and white and gorgeous, eyes dazzling.

She was wearing pink scrubs.

"I knew it was you," Lisa said. "I'd recognize your voice anywhere."

Dean's lungs shuddered in his chest. He was now beginning to feel the burn on his legs. He hissed, and swallowed it down by biting hard on his lips.

"Lisa," he said again. Lisa grinned. "Uh," Dean scratched the back of his head. "How have you been? What are you doing here?"

He hated himself the second the words left his mouth. Pink scrubs. Duh.

"I work here," she said, proudly. "I needed some different. Teaching yoga just wasn't doing it for me anymore. Finished my degree just about two years ago now, right here in Washington."

"That's great," Dean said, and he smiled despite himself, smiled even though it hurt.

"What about you?" Lisa asked. "What have you been up to? God, it's been a long time, hasn't it? What, eight, nine years?"

 _I lived with you for a year_ , Dean thought, a rock forming in his gut. But Lisa didn't remember any of that. As far as she knew, the last time Dean had seen her was when he and Sam had saved all those kids from the changelings.

"You know," Dean shrugged. "Same old same old."

"Still saving the World?"

"Just a little," Dean said. He wadded up the napkins and tossed them into the wastebasket bin underneath the table.

"You're part of the reason I wanted to get into nursing," she said.

"Really?"

Lisa nodded. "I wanted to help people, like you and Sam do. How is Sam?" Her face paled suddenly, and she turned to the patient board above the nurse's station. "He's not here in this hospital, is he?"

"No! No. It's not like that. Great. Sam's great. He's, uh, he' s working a case in Indiana right now, actually. I stayed behind to," Dean looked at Cas's bedroom door, "take care of some business." Lisa kept staring at him expectantly. Dean tried to focus on the burn on his calf, but he wasn't sure if any sort of pain would be able to distract him from this, this searing, shredding of his heart. "How's Ben?" he asked, wincing.

Lisa smiled wide and proud. "Fantastic. He's just started his Freshmen year of college in Seattle."

Dean's heart skipped a beat. Ben was all grown up now. He was a young man. And Dean had missed it.

This could have been his life. This should have been his life. A wife, and a child, and a job. Lisa didn't remember that year, but Dean did. He remembered family movie nights, home cooked meals, waking up and going to the same job every day, coming home at the same time. The monotony. He had both loved and despised it.

"I know," Lisa said. "Time flies, doesn't it?"

"It sure does," Dean said. The coffee twisted in his gut.

Lisa's smile faltered. "Why are you here, Dean?"

"Family," he responded immediately. "Family member is real sick."

"Oh, no."

Dean wiped at his nose. "Been spending my days here. Just got kicked out." Dean sniffed. "How come I haven't seen you around before?"

"Rotation schedule. I was working with in-patient recovery last week. This week I'm here in ICU."

"Oh."

Lisa's eyes went back to the patient board.

"Castiel," Dean answered the question Lisa hadn't dared to ask.

"Oh," Lisa said. Dean hated it. The thing he hated most was wrapped up in that one syllable: pity. Lisa surely knew about Cas's condition. Whole damn floor surely knew about Cas's condition.

"He's holding on," Dean said. "He's tough."

Lisa turned back to Dean and her smile returned, though it was muted, not as wide nor as carefree as it had previously been. "He must be, if he's related to you. How is he related to you, anyhow? You didn't speak about him earlier. Cousin?"

"That's a long story," Dean said. "But, he's family. That's all that matters."

"Yeah."

They stared at each other. Memories swam around in Dean's mind. Memories he had, but Lisa didn't. Within him existed a life that Lisa didn't even remember. As far as she was concerned, Dean was still just a weekend fling. A story she told her girlfriends at wine tastings and pot lucks.

"My shift's actually over," Lisa said. "How about we go get some real coffee? We're in Washington, after all. It's actually sacrilegious they try to pass off this crap as even edible, much less as coffee."

Dean should say no. He knew it would be better for both of them it he said no. This wasn't right.

But he was weak. And she was still a friend. Even if she didn't remember it.

"I'd like that."

.

.

.

Dean found himself in a back corner of Starbucks at eight-thirty pm, nursing something Lisa had ordered for him called a caramel macchiato. He'd been skeptical at first, and he was sure he could get diabetes just from smelling it, but when he took his first sip, it had been warm and sweet. He enjoyed it more than he would ever admit.

"I think about you and Sam a lot," Lisa said. She had a small pastry beside her latte.

"Really now?"

"It's kind of hard not to. I mean, the work you two do. . ." Lisa looked her shoulder at the other patrons. No one was paying them any mind. The other customers were mostly college aged kids typing away on laptops with headphones jammed into their ears. The baristas were whispering to one another behind the counter. Lisa turned back to Dean. "It's good work. But it's dangerous work."

"It has its pros and cons," Dean said.

"I'm serious, Dean. It was hard, especially those first few weeks after you guys left. I was paranoid about everything. If I hadn't had that experience with Ben, if you had just told me that all these monsters are actually real, I wouldn't have believed you. I would've thought you were just another drifter on drugs."

Dean sucked on his lip.

"I ruined my good floors putting salt over all the thresholds. Switched out all my doorknobs for real silver ones. I was terrified to let Ben out of my sight even for a moment."

"No one would blame you for that," Dean said.

"I've just never been able to keep that night out of my mind. How close I came to losing. . ." Lisa tucked her hair behind her ears. "And then I just kept thinking about you and Sam. Wondering if you were alive or dead, and never being able to get an answer."

"Sorry."

Lisa shook her head. "No, no. Don't apologize. I get it. I do. You guys are probably very busy."

Dean took another sip of the coffee and raised his eyebrows. "You have no idea." Between one Apocalypse after the other, breaks, vacations, were foreign words to the Winchesters.

But that wasn't why Dean never called Lisa. He could never tell her the truth.

He wished he never met her. That he never spent a year of his life living with her, trying to play the façade of the apple pie life, trying to make her his wife, Ben his kid. He'd done it because Sam had asked him too. It had been Sam's dying wish. How could he have ignored that?

It'd been a mistake. It had gouged something deep in Dean's chest—to be so close to that perfect, American suburbia, but never quite grasping on; and then to have ripped out from under him. It had hammered home the truth Dean always secretly knew, but goaded himself into disbelieving. Hunters didn't get that. They sacrificed so other people could live that life. The only time a hunter got out of the life was when they died. Maybe they would get a wake like Asa did, but probably what would happen is someone would burn you and pour beer on your ashes, and eventually you would fade away from the memories of other hunters, just another cautionary tale, another tragedy.

"So," Lisa said, drumming her fingers on the table top. "Castiel."

Dean gnawed on his lip.

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," she added hastily. "I just. . . You said he was family. I thought it was just you and Sam."

Dean stared down at his cuticles. There was always dirt embedded in them that wouldn't wash out, no matter how much he scrubbed. "For a long time, it was. I would do anything for Sam. I would die for him." He'd done more than die for Sam. He'd gone to Hell for Sam. "But, you know. That's. . . it's not good to have your entire World revolve around just one person."

Lisa smiled. "I know what you mean. I feel that way with Ben sometimes. And you feel selfish for wanting something else. Someone else. But honestly, getting back into dating was good for me. And it was good for Ben too, in a way. So, what is Castiel to you?"

"He's my best friend," Dean answered immediately, honestly. He cleared his throat. He hated how penetrating Lisa's gaze was. It was digging into his skin. "So, dating, huh. Is there a lucky guy I should be worried about?"

"Not at the moment, no," Lisa said, biting the tip of her tongue, crinkling her eyes.

Dean's blood ran cold.

This had been a mistake. This had been an awful mistake. What the hell had been thinking, agreeing to this? His blood was cold, but his face flushed, and a rock was hardening in the pit of his gut.

What the hell was he doing here? Castiel was in the hospital, fighting for his life. Sam was following whispered leads that may or may not be the breadcrumbs to Lucifer's lovechild. Mom was in an entire different dimension, trapped with Lucifer, and no way home, and she might not even be alive anymore, Lucifer could have killed the moment that portal closed behind them, and Dean and Sam would never know, they didn't even have a body to burn-

Lisa kept looking at him like that, eyes half-lidded, smiling seductively. If this were any other instance, Dean would have fallen right for it. He'd been taking her outside right now, driving to the nearest motel, without a care in the World. If this were ten years ago, they wouldn't have even bothered with this charade of going out for coffee, and catching up on one another's lives like it meant something.

"Oh," was all he could manage to say instead, but it didn't perturb Lisa. She kept smiling at him like that, with everything he didn't deserve.

He still had Castiel's mixtape in his pant pocket. He refused to take it off his person. It was the only tangible thing he had to Castiel.

"Excuse me for a second," Dean said, shoving his chair back, not giving Lisa time to answer. Dean went to the bathroom. It was a single stall. He locked the door behind him and went to the sink. He ran the water cold and splashed it on his face. He braced his arms on the side, shivering.

The mirror was filthy. Dust and fingerprints were spackled across the pane, obscuring Dean's view. He inhaled slowly and deeply. His eyes burned.

He felt disgusting. A soul deep level of tainted.

He felt like a cheating dirtbag.

Which was ridiculous. There was no reason for him to feel like that. He and Cas—they're weren't in a relationship. They're weren't—they're weren't like that. Not really. Maybe, they could have been. Maybe if Dean hadn't. . . or if he had said those words, instead of chickening out, and shoving that tape into Cas's hands and sending him off when Cas didn't even understand what it was—

And Cas was lying in a hospital bed, human, dependent on machines to keep him alive. Cas asked Dean to trust him, again.

And Dean said no, _again_.

And the end result was the same.

Dean sucked on his lip. It was beginning to chap.

No. No. It wasn't the same—not quite. Cas was still alive. Worse for wear, but he was alive. And. . . and he'd be okay.

Cas had to be okay. Dean had to give him the mixtape back.

When he exhaled, it was slow and shaky.

He didn't want to go with Lisa. He felt like an even bigger asshole for even agreeing to come with her. He hadn't lead her on, had he? They were both closer to forty than thirty—surely sometimes coffee just meant coffee, right?

Dean was many things. He knew there was a lot wrong with him. He'd done a lot of awful things, both above ground and under it. But one thing he was not—he wasn't a cheater. Never mind that he could count on one hand the number of steady relationships he'd had and still have fingers left over. He wasn't going to do that to Cas. Or to Lisa.

Someone banged on the bathroom door. Dean inhaled again, and rooted deep down for his courage. He would just have to tell Lisa the truth. The almost-truth. Lisa may know about the truth about the creepy crawlies that go bump in the night, but some things were still better left secrets.

He exited the bathroom, shoving his way past the patron who'd been waiting by the door. Lisa was standing up. When she saw him, her smile fell, and her brows burrowed in concern.

"Dean? Is everything okay?"

Dean stuck his hands in his jacket pocket. "I'm sorry, Lisa," he said. "I—I can't."

"Can't?"

"You know. Go with you. Do. . . that."

"Oh."

Dean reached for his wallet. "Let me pay you back for the coffee." He didn't have much cash on him. What he did have was a bunch of dirty, crumpled ones. Lisa touched his wrist gently.

"Dean, no, don't worry about it. It's my treat."

Dean sighed and met her eyes. "I really am sorry. I'm an idiot. It's just—I didn't realize what this was."

Lisa stared at him quizzically. "There's someone else, I assume?" There was no anger in her voice. No judgement.

"It's. . . it's complicated," Dean answered.

He wished he could go back home, to the bunker. He wished Sam, and Cas, and Mom would be waiting there for him. They'd have dinner and watch a movie. Sam and Mom would eventually call it a night and retreat to the sanctity of their rooms to go to sleep. But Cas didn't need to sleep. He and Cas would be alone and they'd—

Dean didn't know what they'd do. He knew what he wanted to do. But, Cas had to want it too, right? Cas at least felt the same way Dean did.

 _I love you_ rang in his ear.

But no.

Dean had to squash that fantasy before it got too far.

Dean would instead go back to a crummy motel with worse water pressure than most prisons, lay on a mattress from the stone ages, and continue to have strange dreams where Cas mutilated himself to survive. All the while, Cas would lay unmoving in a hospital bed, on some precipice between life and death that Dean couldn't pull him back from.

And here he was, going on coffee dates.

"It's okay, Dean," Lisa said. "You don't have to explain. I presumed. I'm sorry— "

"No, no. I didn't mean—look, I don't want-"

"Dean. It's okay. Really." Lisa smiled again, genuine. "I get it. I kind of sprung up on you. I just heard your voice and-," she licked her lips. "Whoever they are, they're very lucky."

Dean resisted snorting. Cas wasn't lucky to have him. Dean had ruined his life. Cas had been angel, and he'd been happy enough sitting on his cloud, polishing his halo and tuning his harp, and Dean ruined it for him. He ruined it just like he ruined everything. He sunk his claws into an angel and pulled him down into the muck of humanity. Into a world of pain and confusion. When Dean first met him, there'd been a fire in his eyes: a pure surety in who he was, what he was doing. Dean hadn't seen that look in Cas's eyes in years. Not since that night when he stood in Chuck's-God's house—and said they were writing their own story. Because Dean asked him for help.

And now Cas was human and hurting. Because he knew Dean.

"I'm the lucky one, actually," Dean said.

"That's great, Dean. It really is. She makes you happy?"

"He does."

"He?" There was no disdain in Lisa's voice. Just surprise.

"That's also complicated," Dean answered. He swallowed. His salvia tasted like caramel.

It wasn't like he hadn't. . . looked at guys before. And there'd been a few times when he was younger. When Sam was off at Stanford, and Dean was doing hunts alone for the first time ever, without Dad's piercing gaze watching his every move.

There'd been bartenders, and waiters, and one time a businessman in a bus station bathroom.

But none of those had meant anything. They were just like the women over the years. A fun night, then he was back on the road, without a second thought.

It wasn't that Cas was sort of guy that was complicated. It was that this wasn't something Dean could forget about in the morning. This was more than a night of fun, anonymous sex.

"Huh," Lisa said. "Guess I owe Janet twenty bucks."

"Janet?"

"Friend from the old neighborhood. Said someone that grotesquely heterosexual was clearly over-compensating for something. Don't worry about it. Does he make you happy?"

Happy. Angry. Terrified. Worried out of his goddamned mind.

But happy. Rare, soft smiles were the reapings of hard fought battles. Snarky, put-upon comments that were signifiers of how much he cared. The knowledge that he wouldn't just die for Dean, but for Sam too; and for Mary. This creature that was crafted by God's hand, that had seen Dean in Hell, that knew everything Dean had done in the Pit—and how he _enjoyed_ it. And how he still relished in the blood and screams of a demon, or a monster, and still chose to love him.

It was almost too much.

"Yeah," Dean said. "He does."

"Is it Castiel?"

Dean's mouth dried. He scratched the back of his neck. The hair was thick and coarse, long overgrown. His nose itched. "Please," he said, cringing at the sound of his own voice. "Please don't tell anyone." Just because they were in Washington, Dean wasn't going to take any chances. Even if the hospital was okay with them philosophically, or whatever, they still. . . they weren't married. They weren't even in a relationship, not really. HIPPA laws meant the doctors could barricade him and Sam from seeing Cas, or from sharing information about his condition. "They think we're brothers—next of kin, you know."

Lisa's smile twisted into something bitter, but sympathetic. "Your secret's safe with me."

Dean's stomach unknotted. "Thanks, Lisa."

"Of course," she said. "Who am I to stand in the way of true love by enforcing bureaucracy?"

Dean huffed and smiled a little, despite himself. He remembered why he liked Lisa.

He still liked her. He spent a year of his life with her. Even if she didn't remember it, Dean did. He always would. Lisa was nice and funny. She made his chest warm, and she made him smile. But Dean didn't love her. He realized that now better than he ever had before.

He loved Cas.

"Can I give you a ride somewhere?" Dean asked, scratching the back of his head. He had driven Lisa here in the Impala. In retrospect, it hadn't been a good idea. It had probably given Lisa the wrong idea to begin with. Set up some of her expectations. Dean should have realized when she began to purr over the car.

Lisa shook her head. "Nah. I'll call a cab."

Dean bit his lip. "Are you sure? I-I can't do that to you. I can at least take you back to the hospital to get your car."

"I'm sure," she said. "You've had a rough go of it lately. Go, take a nice shower. Get some sleep. You have to take care of yourself too to take care of other people."

"I know," Dean said, swallowing.

Lisa stuck out her hand. Dean stared at it dumbly for a moment before he took hold of it. Lisa squeezed his hand firmly, and gave it a good shake.

"You have a good night, Dean," she said. She let go of his hand. She picked up her purse, and she began to walk out the exit.

"You too," Dean said, too late. He winced. He looked around him, at the other patrons in the café. No one was paying him any attention at all.

Dean picked up his drink. He took a long sip and grimaced. It was too sweet now. It made his teeth hurt. He threw it away and got into the Impala.

He waited there, with his hands on the steering wheel, and contemplated. He debated going to the motel and doing just as Lisa suggested: showering and sleep.

But Dean was wired. And it wasn't from the caffeine. It went deeper than that, and it scratched at his nerve fibers. Without Lisa to distract him, he was thinking again of the dreams. And the last one, specifically. How Cas had maimed his own wings to save his life. How Dean couldn't remember them ever looking like that the few times he had seen them, even if it was just shadows.

It was an easy decision. He started the ignition, turned on the high beams, and drove onto the highway.


	9. Chapter 9

_Me, I'm dishonest, and you can always a dishonest man to be dishonest._

 _Honestly, it's the honest ones you have to watch out for._

-Captain Jack Sparrow

CHAPTER NINE

"You boys sure know how to keep things interesting," Jody said, going over the newspaper articles for the last time. She scratched down notes on an old legal pad.

Sam, sat on the bed, glanced up from his laptop briefly and huffed. "That's one word for it."

"I'm serious. Here I thought vampires and djinns were tales to tell at the bar, but I guess that's just another Monday for you boys. Nah, you guys go after the big stuff. Angels, demons, and Lucifer's kid."

Sam clicked on another article and inwardly groaned. Another dead end. "I think I'd rather stick with the vampires and djinns if I had a choice."

"Really?"

Sam looked at Jody curiously. He smiled despite himself. "Is that so surprising?"

Jody shrugged. "I just figured, if you had a choice, you wouldn't be doing this type of stuff at all."

Sam's smile slipped and he swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing uncomfortably down his throat. "Well, people like us, we don't get that choice. It's just not in the cards for us. I've accepted that."

Jody frowned. She pushed the newspaper articles away from her, and turned so that her entire body was facing Sam. "Have you?"

Sam bit his lip. He tried searching for a different term—giant, instead of Nephilim, as they were referred to in the Bible. "I've tried getting out, Jody. Twice. Dean's tried too. It just doesn't work. Once you're in, you're in till you die." Sam shifted uncomfortably on the bed. The air suddenly seemed ten degrees warmer. He cleared his throat. "Besides, I'm content. Is this what I set out to do with my life? No. But I get to help people. And that's what I want to do more than anything. All I've ever wanted to do."

Jody smiled softly. "Bit different from lawyering, isn't it?"

"Just a bit. And anyway, what about you? We sort of dragged you into this life. You were happy before." Sam bit his lip. Jody had a husband and a son, and she lost both of them, twice. She'd been just another cop doing her job, doing what she was supposed to do, and Sam and Dean had ruined it for her.

Jody waved her hand dismissively. "My life hasn't really changed. I mean, I got Claire and Alex now, and they're great. I love them, and I consider them my own children. But I used to deal with bad guys day in and day out. Now I just deal with a different type of bad guy. Truth be told, monsters are sort of easier than people."

"Dean says the same thing. Says people are crazy."

"That they are." Jody paused. "Sam, about your mom. . ."

Sam shook his head. "What about her?"

Jody leaned forward. "Your mom's a tough lady."

"I know," Sam said, eyebrows furrowing. What was Jody talking about?

Jody licked her lips. "Wherever this thing is, this Nephilim, we'll find it. And we'll get her back."

Sam knew Jody was just trying to make him feel better. He appreciated it, but also wished she would stop. She was making promises she couldn't keep, asserting things she couldn't possibly know for sure. Mom was tough, but that wasn't a guarantee that she would be alive. Sam had only been in that World for a few minutes, but he had seen the devastation it had endured. Angels and demons battling it over for decades had decimated the Earth, burned it to a crisp, and left almost no survivors in its wake. The Other Bobby that spoke with them was probably one of the last remaining humans in that World.

And Mary hadn't just fallen through the rift. She'd fallen through with _Lucifer_. It wouldn't take Lucifer any effort at all to kill her. Mary didn't even have training against angels. She had a few fancy toys from the Brits, but it was one thing to know something in theory, another to actually have practice in it. Like Dean complained about Mick—hunting wasn't something that could be learned through books.

His stomach began to churn. He tried to shove it out of his mind. He had been trying exceptionally hard not to actually think on any of this stuff: Jack, Mom, Cas. . . Sam needed to keep his sanity intact, and if he dwelt on any of it for too long, he would crack. And he needed to stay sane, not just for himself, but for Dean too. Dean needed him.

Sam looked down at his phone. He had done his check-in with Dean when he and Jody got to the motel. Dean had told him about dreams he had been having, and Sam didn't know if it was something they needed to worry about or not. Dean was under a lot of stress, so nightmares weren't surprising, but Sam also couldn't just dismiss them entirely. There could be more to the dreams. But what?

And even if there was more to them, what could Sam do about it? He couldn't just drive back to Washington, back to Dean. Not yet. He had to finish this mission. Find Jack, bring Mom home. They'd deal with everything else as they came to it, but until then, Sam could only focus on the task at hand. Dean was the toughest guy Sam knew. Sam didn't like it, but he knew Dean would be strong enough to deal with the dreams by himself for a few days, at least long enough for Sam to find Jack.

"Thanks, Jody," Sam said, giving her a smile. Jody wasn't just a great hunting partner; she was a great friend. And with the loss of Eileen, and with coming so close to losing Cas, Sam didn't think he could bear to lose anyone else. She was really like the mom Sam never knew.

Before his actual Mom came into the picture, anyway.

But. . . sometimes, Jody still felt more of a mom than Mary did.

Sam pushed those thoughts away. They were toxic, and they wouldn't help him right now, not with the task at hand. His feelings for Mary were complicated; a dark, twisted thing in his chest, full of thorns, but also somehow love.

"And how's Dean holding on?" Jody asked.

"As best he can. He's got something to focus on, at least. That keeps him sane."

"After we get this wrapped up, I'd like to meet that angel friend of yours."

Sam's breath hitched. Cas wasn't an angel anymore. Now he was just like them, human, vulnerable, on a timeline towards death—and actually dying this time. Sam still had that image seared into his brain. Cas on the muddy ground, bleeding out his chest. Then, Cas in that hospital bed, small and pale, with tubes and machines netted around him. He'd see Cas beat up before, bloodied and bruised, but he'd never imagined Cas getting hurt like that. It was reminiscent of that time Dean was in the hospital, years and years ago, when the Impala had been smashed by that eighteen wheeler.

But being human saved Cas.

Sam looked at Jody and realized that Cas didn't really know any of their friends. Cas was their family, a brother to Sam, but Cas had never met Jody, or Garth, or Jesse and Cesar. He'd never met Eileen.

Things were going to have change drastically.

"I'd like you to meet him too," Sam said softly.

Jody's grin widened. "So, uh, has Dean gotten his shit together finally then? About him and, uh, Cas? That's his name, right?"

Sam smiled and nodded, then he huffed. "Yeah. Castiel. And, no, I don't think so. Dean and Cas. . . there's a lot going there that even I don't understand all of. But," Sam licked his lips. He thought of the mixtape Dean had tried at first to hide, then reluctantly gave to Sam to look at. "But I think he's slowly realizing it now. What happened with Cas. . . it was a really close call. Really fucking close. I think once Cas starts getting better, Dean'll pull his head out of his ass."

At least, Sam hoped he would. Dean was a loose cannon, though, and was never really predictable. But Sam had seen what a wreck Dean had been this last year where Cas was concerned. Even before the whole Lucifer possessing Cas shitstorm brewed, Dean was overly anxious about Cas.

Maybe this would be the wake-up call Dean needed. It seemed like the two of them were slowly working their way back towards one another, but every time they got close, something knocked them back, and they had to shelve it for later, only later never really came.

Cas almost died. He still wasn't out of the woods yet. And even when he did wake up, there would still be so much recovery to go through.

Sam closed his laptop and put it on the nightstand. He rubbed at his eyes and glanced at the clock. It was almost eleven pm. He and Jody needed to get an early start tomorrow to make sure they spoke with the farmer and investigated everything with a fine tooth comb.

"Time to hit the hay?" Jody asked.

"Probably for the best," Sam said. It had been a long day of driving too. Sam was getting too old for this shit.

Jody went into the bathroom to change into her pajamas. Sam quickly changed in the room, stripping down to comfortable sweatpants. Jody came out a few minutes later. Sam relieved himself and brushed his teeth, and then he climbed under the covers of the free bed.

Jody turned the light out and muttered, "'Night, Sam."

"Good night, Jody."

Sam tossed and turned for several hours before he finally fell into a fitful sleep.

.

.

.

"Great," the farmer, an elderly man, spat at the ground. He glared at Sam and Jody. "Who the hell are you guys with now? I already spoke with the Humane Society."

Sam shared a sided eyed glance with Jody. "Mister Jefferson, I'm Agent Simmons, this is my partner, Agent Frehley. FBI." He and Jody showed their badges.

Jefferson squinted and leaned forward, raising his glasses a bit. Sam chewed on his lip, but kept his outer composure calm. People didn't usually inspect their fake badges too closely. He eventually seemed satisfied. He put his glasses back on his face and leaned back.

"FBI, huh? What's the FBI doing here?" Jefferson's face paled. He looked over his shoulder—the farm hand was in the back, plowing the field. "This wasn't the work of aliens, was it?"

Sam fought the urge to roll his eyes. "We're just being thorough."

"That's a yes, isn't it? Oh my god, I've been visited by aliens!"

"Mister Jefferson," Jody said, smiling gently. "What can you tell us about your cattle before uh, the incident?"

"What do you mean?"

"Were they ill? Any changes in their diet? Or any changes in the help?"

Jefferson chortled. "No. I've already been over this with those other suits. They were all healthy as they could be the night before. Next morning me and Paul get out for the morning milk, and they're all dead, nothing but skin and bones. Like they'd never had a single thing to eat ever."

"And you didn't see anything last night?"

"No." Jefferson was beginning to get irritated. His tone was short and snappish. "No, I didn't see nothing! My livelihood is ruined! Those people at the humane society think I'm some sort of animal abuser, or something. I might never be able to own another cow again."

"We understand your frustration, Mister Jefferson," Sam butted it. He didn't like the way the man was beginning to talk to Jody. "We don't think you're responsible. This is obviously a tragedy. We want to discover what happened, and make sure it never happens again. All my partner and I want to do is search the field."

"And then you'll go away?"

"Scout's honor."

Jefferson sneered, and then waved his hand. "Fine. Do your thing. We'll stay out of your way."

"We won't take long," Sam said. "C'mon," he said to Jody, motioning with his head.

He and Jody walked several yards. The field was spacious, grass tall and green. Not all of the bodies had been removed, though. Corpses still were scattered about, the smell permeated in the air, tongues rolling out the mouths.

"You ever see anything like this?" Jody asked, making a face at one of the dead cows.

"Never," Sam said, huffing. "This doesn't make any sense. I can see him killing the cows, sure, but how'd he make them so emaciated?"

He couldn't see any wounds on the cows. No bite marks, or claw marks, or burns.

"I guess I was expecting something a bit more Biblical," Jody said. "You know, swarms of frogs and locus. Water turning to blood."

Sam thought about it. "Joseph," he said.

"Come again?"

"Joseph, from the Bible."

"The one whose brothers sold him into slavery?"

"Half-brothers. But yeah. He had visions. From God." Sam swallowed uncomfortably. It was just last year he thought he was having visions from God, too. He wondered how it felt to actually be one of God's chosen children. Instead he got visions from Satan. "One of them was about cows like these, completely starved. It was supposed to be a warning from God about the upcoming famine."

"Huh," Jody said. "Guess this kid's the literal type."

Sam walked further back into the field, looking on the ground for anything out of the ordinary. He only narrowly avoided stepping into a pile of dung.

"What are we going to do about farmer boy?" Jody asked.

"What about him?"

"He seemed pretty set on his alien theory."

Sam shrugged. "Let him. Easier than explaining the truth. Besides, we're not even sure if this is Jack's work. It still could be a demon."

"Never seen a demon do this. You?"

"No," Sam admitted reluctantly. He pulled out his cellphone and opened the gallery. He had taken a screencap of the security video from the Cincinnati zoo. It was poor quality. Jack could barely be seen, more of a shadow than anything that looked like a person. His yellow eyes still stood out though, still made Sam queasy just looking at them. He wanted to believe that Jack was good. Or that he was capable of good. But when Sam saw those sick, yellow eyes, he couldn't imagine them ever containing goodness.

But he still had to try. He had to find Jack before Asmodeus did.

"Well, working with you boys at least keeps me on my toes," Jody said. "Never a dull moment."

Sam huffed. "That's one way to put it, I guess."

Sam and Jody split up. Sam took the east half of the field, Jody took the West. Nothing stood out to Sam. It was all the same—dead cows laying in sporadic places, flies buzzing above the rotted flesh, the smell choking Sam. He brought his arm up and covered his nose with his elbow. He saw nothing. No blood, no ash. There was no sulfuric smell still lingering. It was a moderate, sunny day.

Sam came to the end of the property. Bales of hay were lined against the gate in a neat row. Sam put his hands in one bale, digging through. The hale was coarse and brittle. He walked the line of the gate, gazing over all the different bales.

Then he saw it. There was one bale that was knocked over. It looked like it had been blown away. Sam frowned. If there was a strong wind, why did it only move one bale, and not any others? Sam knelt down, and noticed the grass around the one bale was squished. Someone had been standing there.

Sam put his hands through the bale, slowly peeling it apart and digging. He didn't see anything, so he pushed it up into its original position.

There were two feathers that had been pinned underneath. Each one was about a foot in length, and was a bright, golden color. Sam picked them up by the root. His skin was sliced open. He swore and instinctively dropped both feathers, pressing his bleeding finger into his mouth.

What the hell?

Cautiously, Sam reached out again. He picked the feather up by the vane this time and brought it close to his face to inspect the root. It was silver, and it shone against the sunlight. There was a dribble of his blood coating it. It looked like an angel blade. Sam withdrew his finger from his mouth and touched the feather root gently. He ran his finger down the length. It was cold.

"Huh," Sam said.

He and Dean had a few angel feathers locked down safely in the bunker and Impala. They used them for spells sometimes. Dean started finding them in the backseat of the Impala after Lucifer was first freed from the Cage the first time. Sam still remembered the first one Dean found. He laughed about it for a bit, and grinned widely, before showing it off to Sam.

"If he's gonna shed in the car, we better put some towels down," Dean had said. Sam shot Dean down with an angry look. Dean had paled a bit, and swallowed, having enough decency to look shamed, before he tucked the feather into a wooden cigar box they had painted sigils over.

Feathers appeared more gradually over that year. At first, it would just be one at a time, but slowly, the batches grew to three, four, five. They never talked about it. But soon after the feather batches became more numerous, and they appeared more often, Cas stopped flying.

Cas's feathers had been black, though. Ever since the first one. Sam stared at this one, this golden color like a rising sun.

Jody's footsteps came up behind him. "You find something?"

Angel feathers were powerful spell ingredients. With one, spells that mimicked an angel's power could be completed. Healing, teleportation, time traveling.

Could it also open portals to new Worlds?

Sam stood up. His legs were a bit wobbly. "Yeah," he said. He couldn't take his eyes off the two feathers. "Don't think these came from birds, do you?"

Jody frowned and studied the feathers in Sam's hands. "Not from any bird I've ever seen. Those what I think they are?"

"If we're thinking the same thing. This. . . this is really good. This is awesome, actually." Sam grinned. It split his cheeks, and felt unnatural. Finally, a good piece of news. Finally, a shred of hope. The last few days had passed by slowly, and Sam felt like he was trudging through a fog, but now, now a light had finally appeared at the end. Sam finally had something to walk towards.

"Angel feathers are so powerful," Sam explained. "Even our friend, Cas, even though he's, uh, um, not connected to Heaven anymore, his feathers are still really powerful. Imagine what Jack's feathers can do."

They could do a summoning spell. Find somewhere remote, get the precautions set up: ring of holy fire, some warding. Sam wasn't sure if any of those would affect Jack in any way—if his humanness would interfere with anything, but better to be safe than sorry. He'd bring an angel blade too. Even if it didn't do anything, it would make Sam feel better to have it, especially since he had Jody with him. He wouldn't endanger her more than he had to.

"I know that look," Jody chastised. "You Winchester boys are not trained in the art of subtlety, are you? C'mon, spill."

"Just thinking," Sam said.

"Uh huh," Jody said. "Young man, I have two teenage girls in my household. 'Just thinking' ain't gonna cut it, I need details."

Sam pocketed the feathers carefully in his pants. The farmer was beginning to grow impatient, staring at them spitefully from the other side of the field.

"Not here," Sam said. He tilted his head in Jefferson's direction. Jody chewed on her lip, but she sighed and nodded.

"Fine."

"I'll tell you, I promise."

"He's coming this way," Jody said, uncrossing her arms.

Sam turned around. "Thank you, Mister Jefferson."

"Ya'll find anything?" he asked, not bothering to cove the annoyance in his voice at all.

Sam resisted reaching into his pocket to feel for the feathers, to make sure they were still there. "Nothing suspicious," Sam said.

Jefferson snorted. "Figures. This is what my taxes go towards?"

Sam flashed his best fake smile—the same one he used when dealing with particularly unruly witnesses or victims. It was obvious that it was fake, and Sam didn't feel bad at all, especially with impatient assholes. "We won't bother you anymore, sir," he said. He turned to Jody. "Come on, Agent Frehely."

The farmer didn't say anything to them as they walked back to the rental car. The smell of decaying flesh still made Sam's eyes water, but it wasn't his problem anymore.

"Am I going to like this idea?" Jody asked as she pulled on her seatbelt.

"Probably not," Sam said as he turned on the ignition.

"Is Dean going to like this idea?"

"Definitely not." Sam couldn't even imagine how furious Dean would be at Sam's idea.

Jody looked at Sam studiously, darkly. "I'm not going to lie to Dean for you."

Sam swallowed. His hand was stuck on the gear shift. "I wouldn't ask that of you."

"You're not going to lie to him, are you?"

Sam pulled his lip between his teeth. Jody's stare kept bearing down on him.

"Sam."

Sam put the car in drive. "Let's just get to the motel first, okay?"

Jody's glare made his skin itch the entire drive.

.

.

.

"A summoning spell?"

"Yeah," Sam answered, digging through his duffel bag. He was so glad he took that one jug of holy oil from the Impala's trunk. It took up a lot of space in his rental car, but it was definitely worth it. There were other jugs back in the Bunker, but that was a long drive, at least a full day, and Sam didn't have the luxury of wasting time. Every minute was precious. Every minute that passed was a minute Mom was still in that other World, fighting for her life. Every minute that passed was a minute Cas was still wounded, fighting for his life.

Time was literally of the essence.

"Sam."

Sam inhaled and looked at Jody. Her face was drawn into tight lines.

"I am not rushing into this," he said. "We'll put up precautions. Wards, holy fire. It'll be safe."

"Will you at least call your brother?"

"Dean's probably sleeping," Sam said. "He hasn't been sleeping well. I don't want to disrupt whatever little he's getting." It wasn't technically a lie. Dean wasn't sleep well. Sam didn't want to disrupt it. But he looked at the clock, and knew that it was already past eight am back in Washington. Dean would already be back at the hospital, sitting in that chair, and he wouldn't move until eight pm. Sam wished he could do more to help his brother take care of himself.

But this was the best he could do for Dean. Getting Mom back would be better for Dean than pestering him to eat and sleep and shower. And, if Sam was able to get Jack to bring Mom back, he could convince him to heal Cas.

He had to heal Cas.

"Sam Winchester," Jody said, in what she had once called her "Mom voice." Sam swallowed. "You have to tell your brother the truth."

"Look," Sam snapped. "Dean and I, we've got our issues, I know. But Dean's in a really dark place right now. He's worried about enough as it is. Cas, Mom, and me. I'm not going to worry him any further. It's not a lie. . . it's just an omission of the truth."

"You're unbelievable," Jody said, chuckling humorlessly. "I have to be dreaming, right? Because I thought you and your brother were going to work on not lying to each other, and not keeping secrets!"

"Exactly. We're _working_ on it. It's not going to be an instant fix. Life-long habits don't disappear overnight. Are you going to come or not?"

Jody sighed. "Dean expects me to look after you. And I don't want to see you hurt, either. You're going to do this whether I go with you or not. First rule of hunting."

"Don't do it alone," Sam answered.

Jody sighed and walked over to Sam. "All right, then. You're more experienced with this whole black magic mumbo jumbo than I am."

"It's not black magic," Sam said. "That's completely different."

"Oh, really? How so?"

"Well, we're not sacrificing any virgins, first of all. Or collecting the blood of uncircumcised, unbaptized babies."

"Excuse me?"

Sam's face scrunched up in disgust. "Witches. Fucking awful human beings."

"Okaaaay."

"We need to find a safe place to do the summoning. Somewhere with enough room to set up a ring of holy fire. And far away enough from the city no one will get hurt."

"Farmer Joe's place is probably out of the question, huh."

"Maybe just a little." Sam pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and opened the map app. "I think there's a place off the highway, up a few miles."

"Best get away from the road, too," Jody said. "Car pulled off the side of the road, lighting fires—that's gonna catch a cop's eyes faster than anything."

"Okay," Sam said. He was pretty confident in the map, and in his plan.

Cas had faith in Jack. Sam had faith in Cas.

"Okay," Sam repeated. He turned towards Jody. "I guess we wait until nighttime."

"That won't be necessary," a voice said. Sam's blood froze in his veins. Jody stiffened beside him and drew her gun from her hip.

"Hello, Sam," Asmodeus said. His yellow eyes were still disorientating, and they still struck something deep inside Sam, something inside his soul.

"You know this guy?" Jody whispered.

"Of course," Asmodeus said, gesticulating wildly with his hands. "Sam and I are mutually connected. Friend of a friend." His smile was dark and twisted. He stepped forward. Sam put his hand in front of Jody's chest and pushed her back gently. Her gun was still and steady.

"I'm not here to hurt you," Asmodeus said. "We've been over this before."

"What are you here for then?" Jody asked.

Asmodeus's eyes fell to the bedspread. Where one of the feathers lay, right there.

"No!" Sam screamed. He leapt forward, but the feather flew from the bedspread right into Asmodeus's hand. He twisted it in his fingers, humming.

"Thank you, Sam," he said. "I appreciate you finding this. You've done your part. I'll do mine."

"Sam," Jody said again, voice edging towards panic. "What's he talking about?"

"You can't do this!" Sam exclaimed. "This isn't our deal!"

"Oh, we had a deal? I don't remember kissing either you or your brother. Was it that bad that I blocked it out?

Sam gritted his teeth. This couldn't be happening. He didn't know what to do. He had _nothing_ that could defeat a Prince of Hell. The Colt was destroyed, an exorcism wouldn't work. Sam swallowed.

"This is cheating," he said, voice calmer than he felt. "Stealing what I found."

Asmodeus shrugged. "That wasn't in our terms. What were our terms again?"

Jody nudged Sam in the side with her elbow. Sam couldn't answer her questions, not now. He knew what their terms were—first to find Jack. That was it.

"Mind you," Asmodeus continued, "I've got nothing to hold me to any sort of moral code, or obligation. There was no deal."

"You were going to kill him anyway," Sam spat. "Even if I found him first."

Asmodeus shrugged. "If you found him first. But let's be realistic, Sam, that was. . . that was unlikely to begin with." The demon laughed. "Look at it this way. I'm saving you and your friend over there. Had you gone up against the Nephilim," Asmodeus inhaled deeply, "you would have died." He lifted the feather and saluted with it. "Thank you, boy king."

Asmodeus vanished then, leaving behind sooty footprints on the carpet.

-0-0-

 _A/N: Okay. So here's the deal: while reviewing my outline I realized that if I want this story to come to its conclusion before s13 airs, I'm going to need to update more than once a week. I'm going to try and update twice a week, on Mondays and Thursdays. I can't guarantee that every week you will get two updates. Some weeks may only be one. But my goal is for two. Sounds good? Good._

 _Please comment? They fill my heart with joy._


	10. Chapter 10

_Doubt not the human power that dwells deep within,  
Doubt not your abilities and strength that will make you win,  
You can be anything you want in life, trust what you are,  
For your spirit within burns brighter than every shining star._

-Daya Nandan

CHAPTER TEN

Dean actually hadn't paid that much attention to road names or directions when Sam had driven them to the hospital. He'd been barely conscious, trapped in his mind with his grief and anxiety to even be able to scrape up a modicum of care to which turns Sam took. He followed the instructions on GPS to get back to the lake house.

Dean pulled up the driveway again. He felt trapped in a fugue of déjà vu. It wasn't that long ago he drove up the gravel road. The first time though, he had Mom and Sam, and a mission to get Cas, get Kelly, get out and go back home.

He wasn't quite sure what he was doing here now, though. Back in the coffee shop, he had an itch in his brain he couldn't scratch, one that insisted he come back here. Dean hesitated inside the Impala for a long time before he turned the ignition off. He waited another full minute before he opened the door and climbed out. He walked around to the back of the house, keeping his head down, gaze directed to the dirt. He could still see the imprints of his and Sam's boot prints. The night air made the hairs on the nape of his neck stand straight up.

He turned the corner and stopped. He stuck his hands inside his coat pocket and chewed on his lip. He almost felt like it was appropriate the say a prayer. A normal person would say a prayer here. This was a gravesite. For Kelly, nearly for Cas.

Maybe for Mom.

He swallowed. He looked up at the sky. It was blanketed with thousands of stars.

He wasn't going to say a prayer. Back when he was a kid, he never believed in God. Never entertained the idea. Even when Dad left him at Pastor Jim's for days, and he and Sam would sit in the front pew, and Jim would stare directly at Dean, smiling, as he went on and on about God's infinite love. God didn't fit into his World.

And now, he knew. God was real. He'd met God, was the first person to communicate with God in over two thousand years. God watched his porn and made him breakfast.

And he was a _dick_.

Dean wished he still didn't believe in God. He couldn't be angry at God if God didn't exist.

But He did exist. He was real. And He was pathetic, and useless, and cruel. God never answered a single one of their prayers. He let the angels go around trying to start the Apocalypse. He ignored Cas. Hell, He sat in that house, writing those godawful books, knowing that Cas was looking for Him, knowing that Lucifer and Michael were preparing to blow the World apart, and He didn't do a damn thing. He was probably getting off on the entire thing.

And He hadn't shown His face since He fucked off with Amara. Kelly died, Cas was hurt, Mom was trapped in _another dimension_ —

And He wouldn't show His damn face and fix it.

"I hate you," Dean whispered to the stars. He brushed away the tears before they could fall.

He looked forward, and his heart leapt up into his throat. Kelly's grave was covered in hundreds of small, blooming flowers. They were recent. Dean figured they couldn't be more than a few days old, stems still weak. They were a myriad of colors: reds, yellows, purples, blues, pinks. Dean touched one gently, with just the pad of his finger. The petals were soft and velvety. A small, yellow light swam up the stem and diluted out into the petals. It glowed for a few seconds, and then it dimmed out slowly.

Dean's tongue was thick in his mouth. He rubbed his face. That yellow was Jack's grace. Jack's grace had done this.

Dean pushed himself back to his feet. His bones creaked. More tears fell, but he didn't wipe them away this time. He sniffed.

"Um," he said dumbly. "We're gonna find your son. Sam's out looking for him right now." Dean danced on the balls of his feet. "We'll take care of him. Me and Sam. Cas too, soon as he's back on his feet."

Dean ignored the pang in his chest. He hoped he wasn't lying. He didn't want to be lying. He wanted Jack to be good. He needed Jack to be good.

"Sorry we couldn't save you too," Dean said lamely. Then he walked around Kelly's grave, a bit further back. To an almost-grave.

It was dark. Dean could barely see. He pulled out his cellphone and turned on the flashlight app. It was only a tiny dot of light, shining against the back drop of night and dark mud, but it was something. Dean traced the light over the wing imprints, over individual feathers. He kept looking for any signs of the injury he'd seen in that dream, but it was difficult. The imprint was at an odd-angle. Cas had been standing when he was stabbed, and then he pitched forward diagonally when he fell. The left wing didn't look injured. It didn't look like Cas had hacked off any piece of it, but Dean couldn't trust it, not with the strange angle.

Dean didn't want it to be true. Even if it was an old injury, one that occurred long before Dean had even met Cas, he didn't want it to be true. He knew jack shit about angel wings—way less than he should have, for someone who claimed to have an angel as his best friend. He didn't know if they healed. If Cas did suffer than injury, did it ever heal?

Staring at those wing imprints, Dean's intestines twisted into knots. He could almost believe they didn't belong to Cas. He'd seen similar ashy remnants dozens of times before, from dozens of different dead angels. But never Cas. Even when Cas had died before, Dean never had to see the finality of it proven with ash marks tattooed onto the ground.

He had to remind himself that Cas wasn't dead. He inhaled deeply, slowly, the cold air piercing his lungs. He turned the mantra over his mind: Cas is alive, Cas is alive, Cas is alive.

These imprints didn't matter. They weren't indicative of anything. Dean began to think this was a waste of time. It had been a bad idea to begin with, but he hadn't been able to appease the itch that had resonated with him ever since he had that dream. He was uncomfortable just remembering it. Dean knew angels were dicks, but he'd never had it paraded in front of him so cruelly. He couldn't stop thinking about Cas, begging for help—and the angels, his comrades, his supposed 'brothers', just leaving him there to die. Without a second thought. Without remorse.

Dean looked forward to the space where Mom vanished. There was nothing but empty air. Dean walked forward to where the portal had been, hoping to feel _something_. Static. A shift in the air. A change in temperature.

There was nothing.

Dean sighed, and braced his back against a tree. The bark scratched through his clothes, rough against his skin.

He looked back up to the sky.

"I hate you." It was barely a whisper. Dean couldn't find the energy to scream. He wasn't even angry enough to scream. The anger had drained out of him, into the dirt beneath his feet, and all that was left was a just a deep sadness. Dean shook his head. "I fucking _hate_ you." He curled his hand into a fist and dug his nails into his palm. He brought it up and bit down on one of his knuckles, fighting against the tears.

Nothing happened. No one appeared. It was still just Dean, alone, standing on the ashy imprints of Castiel's ruined wings. Kelly's grave was ten years away from him. He was just a foot from the spot where the portal had been, where Mom vanished into.

And nothing happened.

Dean sighed.

The walk back to the Impala seemed longer than the walk out.

.

.

.

He was back in the Murky Place. He was more prepared than ever this time. He wasn't surprised anymore. He just began searching immediately for Cas. It didn't take as long, either. Time didn't mean anything here. Dean wasn't even sure if time existed here—but it seemed that it only took him a few steps to find Cas.

A scene was already playing out in front of him. His Cas's face was still obscured, but Dean stood by him and focused his attention instead onto the scene. The Old Castiel was there, several angels standing behind him. One of them was Uriel. Zachariah stood up front. He seemed to be on a podium.

"Your greatest mission is ahead of you, soldiers," Zachariah said, voice loud and confident. "At midnight, Dean Winchester's soul will be claimed by Hell."

Dean swallowed thickly.

"Hell will try to break him," Zachariah continued. "And with him, so breaks the First Seal of the Apocalypse. This cannot happen."

Castiel turned his head uncomfortably. He glanced over his shoulder, at the horde of angels behind him. The movement was mechanical. He turned back to Zachariah.

"Some of you will not return. Your sacrifice is necessary to the cause." Zachariah did not sound sorry or remorseful.

Castiel took a small step forward.

Zachariah raised an eyebrow. "Yes, Castiel?"

"Shouldn't we instead save Dean Winchester's soul before it is claimed by Hell?"

Dean's throat tightened. He stared at Castiel, and for a moment, he didn't know what to think. He still wasn't sure if this was real. None of this made sense. But still. Dean wanted this to be real. Castiel was standing up for him before they'd even met. Trying to spare his pain.

Zachariah's face fell. He came off his platform and walked up to Castiel. He stood there for a moment, jaw tight, eyes narrow and hateful. He hit Castiel straight across the face. It sounded like thunder. Dean winced and swore. Castiel's face turned with the movement. He spat a thick, wet glob of blood. He didn't have time to recover before Zachariah had Castiel's chin tight in his hand, forcing eye contact.

"Is it your duty to question?" Zachariah asked. Castiel glared. Zachariah shook him, tightening his grip. "Answer."

"No," Castiel said slowly, vitriol dripping from the words.

"What is your duty?"

Castiel was silent for a moment. Zachariah's grip tightened again. "To obey," Castiel answered.

"Obey who?"

"God."

"Exactly," Zachariah said. He smiled. It made Dean feel slimy. Dirty. "Who are we to question God?"

"These orders come from God?"

"Where else would they come from?" Zachariah asked.

The scene changed. The colors twisted and warped. Dean looked to his Cas, the one that stood beside him. Dean reached out and took his hand. It was limp, but Dean squeezed it anyway.

Dean turned back. He never really gave thought before to how Cas raised him from Hell. What the process must have been. Dean began to worry that the next scene would be just that—Hell, and Cas storming it.

Dean was actually thankful when it wasn't. It was just Castiel and Zachariah. But Castiel was very clearly injured. He was on his side, wings out. They were black. Every now and then, he would twitch, and a bit of ash would fall off and float down. His left wing looked healed, though. It was the same length as his right. So that injury had healed after all.

"Welcome back, Castiel," Zachariah said.

"Zachariah," Castiel said quietly. His eyes were half-lidded. "Dean—"

"Is A-Okay. Came out of his grave just moments ago, actually. Mission accomplished, Castiel."

Castiel's eyes looked around. "The others? Where is everyone?"

"You're it," Zachariah said cheerfully. He grinned again. Dean felt like snakes were going to crawl out his mouth any moment.

Cas's brows furrowed in a mixture of pain and confusion. Dean was still enamored by the black wings. Black, just like the feathers that sometimes appeared in the car, in the bunker.

"They're dead, Castiel," Zachariah said. There was no grief in his voice.

"All of them?"

"All but you."

Dean's gut twisted again. Bile burned at his throat. He didn't understand—why didn't he know this? All those angels died in Hell? He had assumed. . . that one or two died, here and there. It had been a forty year battle, and there had been many of them.

But _all_ of them?

All but Cas?

Dean looked to his Cas. He squeezed Cas's hand again as he tried to cool the burn in his throat. "Why didn't you tell me?"

All those angels died. And Cas had been hurt. Dean understood now. Cas's wings had been burned. Burns were the worst sorts of injuries. They went straight through the skin, down to nerves and bones, and there wasn't anything that could be done to treat them besides preventing infection and waiting. They _hurt_. Dean would rather be shot than suffer a bad burn.

And Cas's wings were what was burned. Stained. Scarred. Dean thought of that moment back when they first met. Cas showed Dean his wings. Their shadows, at least. Dean had been too terrified to think much of anything at the time. He still hadn't been convinced that Cas wasn't a demon, because angels? Really? After all the shit he had to suffer through, and after everything he did in Hell, after enjoying what he did in Hell, how could angels be real?

And how could an angel look at him, see him as the monster that Hell twisted him into, and think he still deserved to be saved?

Dean swallowed. The colors began to blur again. The scene was changing.

Dean looked to his Cas. He still wasn't quite sure what was happening. What was the point of all this. But he was going to stand here and watch as long as it took.

He squeezed his Cas's hand, and faced forward.

.

.

.

The scenes kept changing. Dean was familiar with many of them. He saw Castiel walking into the barn, lightbulbs exploding over his head, and Dean shooting him in the chest to no effect.

He saw that moment when they were sat on a park bench and Castiel admitted to him, quietly, that he loved humanity more than anything, and that he had doubts about his orders.

He saw the moment when Uriel ordered him to extract vital information out of Alistair. When Castiel looked at him so sadly, so conflicted, and said, "I would give anything not to have you do this." Castiel sat outside the door the entire time, until the moment Alistair broke free of the trap.

He saw Castiel pacing along a dark, endlessly hallway, wringing his hands. Occasionally he would stop and look up at the sky, but he resumed his pacing shortly after. And then he was in Dean's dream, the fishing pier, handing Dean a slip of paper. Terrified that someone would be listening in to their conversation.

Dean didn't see Castiel getting dragged back up to Bible Camp. He was glad. He didn't think he could handle seeing what those dicks to did Castiel upstairs. It was unspoken between them. Dean knew Castiel had been tortured back into submission. That much had been obvious. But Castiel had never divulged details, and Dean never asked, and they went back to their business, with Dean being pissed at Castiel for longer than necessary.

A few weeks after that, Castiel took the plunge.

The scenes kept changing. Dean kept watching, becoming immersed in them. It was like watching a movie, but sometimes Dean got a glimpse of something from Castiel's point of view. Sometimes he saw something he hadn't known about, hadn't been there for. Like Castiel going to Jerusalem to get the holy oil. Dean was never really able to guess what was going through Castiel's mind, ever. Castiel was standoffish at the best of times, and unlike Dean, he knew how to school his mask into stone, keeping his emotions far away, far away that for a long time Dean had believed he didn't even have any.

He felt sort of slimy about the whole thing, like he was intruding in on Castiel's privacy, but he didn't have a lot of choice. He needed Cas to get better. To wake up. And Dean had the feeling the key to that was somewhere in Castiel's memories. So Dean watched.

His heart almost stopped when Castiel was caught in a ring of holy fire by Meg. Moments later, Lucifer arrived, his vessel stricken with leprosy.

Dean realized what this was. This was Carthage. This was where Ellen and Jo died. Dean swallowed and glanced back to his Cas, still beside him, still lifeless.

 _Where the hell were you_? Dean had spat. He accused Cas of abandoning them. He blamed Cas for Ellen and Jo dying. And Cas never said a word in defense of himself. He stood there and took it.

Dean's heart panged. He forced himself to look back at the scene. How come Cas never told him?

Lucifer stood in front of the circle, frowning. "What a peculiar thing you are," he said.

Lucifer tried to get Castiel to join him in his fight. He threatened Castiel, but not his life, not with injury. Lucifer went on about how similar they were. How the angels would see them as one and the same, eventually.

It hurt because Lucifer was right. Castiel was despised by the angels. They hated him. They would spit on him, and torture him.

Dean swallowed the lump in his throat.

And after all that, Castiel still stayed on their side. Still chose to stand against Lucifer, fight for humanity. He used Meg as a bridge to cross the fire, and then met up with Dean and Sam.

Dean saw himself. Saw how he screamed at Castiel, saw how he blamed Castiel for the deaths of Ellen and Jo. Dean didn't recognize himself. Castiel stood there and took it. Never explained. Never tried to defend himself.

Dean felt like a dick. He looked back at his Cas. He wondered how his Cas could still stand by him, and defend him. Still want anything to do with him. Dean knew sometimes he lashed out unfairly at Cas.

But he supposed a part of him thought it was okay. A part of him thought that it was okay because Cas didn't feel. Not like humans did anyway. A part of him thought that he could say whatever the hell he wanted to Cas, unleash and unload, and Cas wouldn't be bothered.

He was wrong. He was so fucking wrong.

He saw it better now, going through these memories. Maybe it came with knowing Cas for so long, that he was more intuned. He saw the subtle shifts of Castiel's face, the tightening of his jaw, the way he tilted his head back.

"I'm sorry," Dean said to his Cas. "I'm so sorry, Cas."

His Cas didn't move. Didn't say anything.

Dean turned back. He wasn't sure what else would be paraded in front of him, or really what the point of it all was, but he would stay, and he would watch.

.

.

.

Castiel went on his search for God. He traveled the globe and space. Dean recognized some places: Paris, Cairo, Tokyo, Sydney. Others he had to take a guess at, like the red landscape he presumed was Mars, and the white, craters, of the moon. Castiel flew through space, warping around stars and comets effortlessly.

It was another reminder to Dean that Castiel was an angel. Something otherworldly. Something grand and inhuman. Dean always knew that on a logical level Castiel was an angel—something nonhuman. But rarely did he ever think about the implications of that. Especially these last several years, when he and Castiel changed from reluctant allies, to friends, to. . . to whatever they were now.

They, they weren't _anything_. They certainly weren't _that_. Dean touched his lips, and thought about Lisa. How she wanted sex. And he turned her down, because going through with would have made him feel like an adulterer.

Cas was human in his heart. But as the memories continued, and Dean saw Castiel do all this amazing angel stuff, he wondered how much that was worth. If it was worth anything.

Cas couldn't even fly anymore. An angel that couldn't fly—that was just cruel.

Dean swallowed, and watched. Even when it go to the uncomfortable parts. The war with Raphael. Dean saw Castiel sit with Raphael. Raphael, smug and smiling, ordering Castiel to bow before him, in front of all the angels, as he began his plan to unlock Lucifer and Michael.

And Castiel refusing. And getting his ass kicked for it.

Dean knew he made mistakes that year. He treated Castiel like shit. He'd been pissed at Castiel, in the beginning. His brother had jumped headfirst into Hell, and then Castiel went back to Heaven, and Dean never heard from him, not until a year later, when Sam showed up on his doorstep with no explanation, acting strange. Castiel showed up and started speaking of an angel war—and Dean had just been so pissed.

In hindsight, Dean realized things could have gone so differently. They didn't have to turn out the way he did.

He saw Castiel standing in Lisa's backyard, watching him rake leaves. Dean swallowed. The scene seemed to drag on forever. Castiel's hands were in his coat pockets, but Dean could see them shifting behind the fabric, curling into fists. Twice, Castiel made a move like he was going closer to Dean, and the aborted it.

And then Crowley appeared, smirking, with a deal in hand. Castiel looked at Dean raking leaves. And then he took Crowley's deal.

Dean didn't think it could worse. But it did.

Castiel stood there, and asked Dean for help. He asked Dean to stand behind him, like he stood behind Dean.

"Do it," Dean said to the memory of himself. "You bastard, help him!"

Memory Dean refused.

Dean swore and tried to ignore the pinch in his eyes. With his free hand, he covered his eyes and sniffed.

In the end, Castiel was right—as right as he could have been in the situation. The Purgatory souls were the best bet to defeating Raphael, saving the World. And Castiel did it. All by himself.

As the scene played out, Dean became aware of his Cas. His Cas was growing stiffer, shoulders hunching. Dean looked at him.

"I'm sorry," Dean said. "I'm sorry I wasn't there for you. I'm sorry I didn't help you when you needed it."

Then the Leviathan took over.

Dean woke up to his cell phone ringing. He bolted upright and smacked his head on the roof of the car. He groaned in pain, his head still hurting from the earlier injury from the nightstand, and his vision was spotty for a few seconds as it came into focus. Dean swallowed, throat painfully dry. His had an awful crick in his neck. He was too old to be sleeping in the Impala.

His phone kept ringing. The default tone, not the personalized one he set for Sam, or Jody. Dean felt around. The phone sometime while he'd been sleeping got lodged between the seats. It took Dean a few moments to find it and answer it, just barely before it went to voicemail.

"Yeah?" he said, voice hoarse.

"Dean?" Dr. Whitaker's voice said.

Dean was struck with a rush of adrenaline. He sat up straight and rubbed his eyes. "Yeah, what is it?"

Dr. Whitaker was quiet for a long moment. Dean's blood slowed down in his veins.

"He's stable now," Dr. Whitaker said. But Dean wasn't stupid.

" _Now_?" Dean checked his watch. It was a little after two am.

He heard Dr. Whitaker swallow. "He crashed."

.

.

.

Dean paced back and forth on the tiled hallway, wearing down the soles of his boots. He bit on his knuckles and ignored the wary, annoyed eyes of the other people staring at him.

Dean looked up at the wall clock and almost screamed. What was taking so long? He got to the hospital as fast as he could, but the nurse still made him sit out in the waiting room. Dean's patience was hanging by a thread. He wanted to scream.

His mind was caught in a whirlwind, concentration torn between the dream and those awful words Dr. Whitaker had told him over the phone.

Finally, finally, _finally_ , Dr. Whitaker came out. Dean didn't want to be called. He rushed up to the doctor. And then discovered he was too terrified to say anything. Dr. Whitaker gave him a calm, reassuring smile.

"He's okay now," the doctor said. Some of the tension in Dean's chest loosened, but not all of it.

"What happened?" Cas had been doing okay, just earlier this evening. Still comatose, but stable. Steady.

"Come with me," Dr. Whitaker said, leading Dean the hallway. The same hallway Dean had followed already.

"Look, doc, no offense, but I-," Dean gulped and inhaled shakily. "I just want to see him."

Dr. Whitaker stared at him. Dean wondered what he saw.

"Okay. We'll talk in his room."

Dean had followed this route several times in the past week, coming in the early hours of the morning, leaving when he was finally kicked out for the night. This time the hallway felt longer. Endless.

The hospital was much quieter, too. Nearly silent. Dean swallowed and tried to think about it. He focused his thoughts elsewhere. Cas was okay. Stable.

It was hard, though. Insidious whispers kept crawling up around his ears. Something was going on. He had that dream, in the Murky Place, reliving all his moments with Castiel. And when he got to the part where Castiel was killed by the Leviathan, he woke to a phone call that Castiel had crashed?

Sam's question echoed in his mind, once more. What kind of dreams were these?

Dean was led to the familiar room. He prepared himself for the worst. He wasn't sure what he should expect, just that it should be worse.

Castiel looked exactly the same. Dean didn't know whether to be relieved or upset.

Dr. Whitaker closed the door behind them. "At approximately one-forty this morning, Castiel went into V-Fib. We were performed CPR and got his heart rate to a normal rhythm."

Dean sighed. He couldn't pull his eyes away from Cas. He still had the IV. Still had the ventilator. He was much paler, and had dark, purple bruises under his eyes. But other than that, he looked exactly the same.

"What caused it?" Dean asked. Cas had been stable since he got out of surgery and was put in the ICU. He hadn't improved any, not really, but he hadn't gotten any worse. Dean thought they were out of the woods. They were well past the critical window of forty-eight hours.

Dr. Whitaker looked at Dean sadly. "We're not sure."

"You're not sure?"

"His heart rate was normal up until that point. No disturbances. Nothing out of the ordinary."

Dr. Whitaker smiled, even though it was sad. He reached out and put a comforting hand on Dean's arm. "We'll keep a good eye on him, but his heart never stopped beating. He's still holding on strong. Better than we could have hoped. I knew from the moment he was brought into my OR that he was a fighter."

Dean snorted, despite himself. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yeah," he said, throat tight. "He is."

"Why don't you stay here for the night?" Dr. Whitaker said. "We can get a cot set up in here. I'll let the nurses know you have clearance."

Clearance. The word was so perfunctory, but at the same time, Dean couldn't dismiss the negative connotation. He needed permission to see Cas. The only reason he had spent all his time with Cas earlier was because Dr. Whitaker gave Dean permission to.

It was a ridiculous notion. That he needed permission—clearance—to see his best friend, sick in the hospital, horrible injured.

He wasn't going to complain about it, though. He couldn't risk pissing Dr. Whitaker off. Dean looked back at Cas. He watched the ventilator push air into Cas's chest.

Dr. Whitaker said Cas's heart hadn't actually stopped. But it could have. Cas could have died and Dean wouldn't have been here.

Dean was exhausted down to his bones. He was too tired to be angry, to be pissed. His life was falling apart at the seams, and he was struggling to hold onto the threads. He didn't want to leave Cas. He turned back and faced Dr. Whitaker. He struggled to hold back tears.

"Thanks, doc," Dean said. "Appreciate it."

Dr. Whitaker's gaze slide from Dean to Cas, back to Dean. His eyebrows furrowed curiously. Dean stood still under his gaze. "Of course, Dean," he said eventually. "I'll be right back with that cot."

He left the room and Dean stared at the door for a moment, gnawing on his lip. He couldn't shake the way Dr. Whitaker had looked at him. What had he been thinking?

Dean decided he didn't care. He walked up to Cas's bed and touched Cas very gently on his chest. "Just hang on, buddy," he whispered. "I need you to hang on."

-0-0

 _AN: Please drop a review if you're enjoying! They make me happy and keep me motivated to write!_


	11. Chapter 11

_Better the devil you know than the one you don't_

Chapter Eleven

"What do we do now?" Jody asked.

Sam almost didn't hear her. Her voice was small, in the distance, barely audible over the rush of blood in his ears, roaring. Sam's throat tightened. His eyes were glued to the spot where Asmodeus had vanished.

With one of Jack's feathers.

"Sam?"

Sam swallowed. He ran his fingers through his hair. It was oily from stress. He pinched his eyes shut and a sudden, intense urge to hit something. Probably the wall. Sam could probably put his fist through the drywall. He turned to face Jody. Jody was looking at him, eyes wide and questioning. Jody was older, had been a cop more than half her life, and here she was, looking at Sam for guidance.

This was supposed to be Sam's specialty. Demons, Hell battalions—they'd been Sam's bread and butter in this life for more than the last ten years.

Sam forced himself to calm down. His heart was slamming against his ribcage, his breath was hot, and he knew he needed to calm down. He inhaled and exhaled slowly, deeply.

"Okay," Sam said finally, biting down on one of his knuckles. "Okay. This is okay."

"Is it?" Jody's voice was high, nearing panic.

"It is," Sam said. If he said it enough, maybe he could convince himself. He looked back over his shoulder, the empty space. "We can work with this."

Sam reached into his pocket and pulled out the second feather. He had another feather. "We can still use this."

Jody stared at the feather hatefully. She put her hand on her hip and thought. "Hold onto that," she said.

Now it was Sam's turn to look confused.

"That guy—that demon—is going to use that feather to find Jack. You're sure that feather is all we have to track Jack down?"

"It's our best shot."

"Then we can't waste it. Let's see how Jack reacts to the demon summoning him."

Sam understood Jody's point. But he couldn't quiet the anxiety vibrating under his skin. "What if he kills Jack?"

If Jack died, they had no hope of getting Mom back, or of helping Cas get better. Jack was Lucifer's kid, but he was still part human. Sam didn't know of any weaknesses Jack may have, but he couldn't dare be arrogant enough to assume Jack was invincible.

Jody signed and pinched the bridge of her nose. This was a useless debate. Sam knew that. Asmodeus had the feather and the power of teleportation. He was probably halfway across the country now—maybe even on the other side of the World, wherever Jack was. Sam hadn't noticed any pattern to Jack's location. To Sam, it seemed completely random. And that was just what Sam had been able to keep track of. They had no way of reaching Jack before Asmodeus.

"Let's not worry about that until it becomes a problem. If it becomes a problem," Jody said.

Worrying about something he couldn't control was pointless. Sam knew all of this. He still worried.

He looked at the feather in his hand. The root was still like steel. Sam was careful that he didn't prick his finger on it again. "Okay," he said, sighing. He put the feather back into his pocket gently, careful not to damage the vane. He looked around the motel room again.

"Is he going to become a problem?" Jody asked.

"I don't know," Sam said honestly. Crowley had told them about the remaining Princes after Ramiel's death. According to Crowley, Dagon and Asmodeus had been hiding low for millennia, ever since Lucifer was first locked in the Cage, and in modern times, they had lost interest in their supposed destinies—ruling Hell. Ramiel had just wanted to be left alone so he could fish. If he hadn't attacked Cas, they might have even left him alone.

The Princes never showed their faces during the Apocalypse. The angels had thought they were all dead. They had managed to lay low, under Heaven's radar.

And now one was back, going after a throne he supposedly didn't want, while hunting down Lucifer's son.

"Fuck my life," Sam muttered, rubbing his hands over his face.

"I'll second that," Jody said. "What are we going to do?"

Sam sat down on the bed. He shrugged and looked up at Jody. "I guess you're right. We just wait."

Jody looked at him sadly.

.

.

.

Lucifer spat out blood and sand. His wings were shaky, having not fully recovered from the banishment yet.

But anger was infused in every cell of his being, vibrating under his skin, inside his bones. He got to his feet and growled, the desire to destroy strong in his will.

But there was nothing around him. This World was already destroyed. A wasteland, desolate of life, of vitality. Of Winchesters.

Lucifer touched a spot on his jaw that had been marred by blood. It hurt. He did not know where Mary Winchester had found such a weapon, but he knew she wouldn't get the chance to use it again. He was going to find that bitch and kill her. Tear her head from her shoulder. Then he would get back to his World and kill her sons, pull them apart cell by cell.

Lucifer flapped his wings, straightening out his feathers. A few fell to the ground, dirty and frayed. A loud crash happened overhead, followed by an extremely bright flash of orange. Angels were fighting one another. Some spirals of black were intertwined with the light. Demons.

This was the World Lucifer should have created. The World his Father had destined, the World that Lucifer was meant to create until those two pathetic, hairless apes ruined _everything_. They ruined the World, ruined God's plan. Ruined Lucifer's reputation.

Lucifer wiped his mouth and wondered where this World's Michael was. His Michael was still locked in the Cage, isolated in a far corner, weeping and masturbating.

Lucifer rolled his eyes just thinking about it. He couldn't believe he had once admired Michael, had once looked up to him, desired to be like him. It was to be expected. Michael was his older brother. Little brothers were supposed to look up to their older brothers.

Now, though, Michael wasn't much of anything. Not a brother, certainly not an angel. Just something sad, something pathetic for Lucifer to abhor, to spit on. He spent another few centuries in the Cage, prepping his escape and revenge against the Winchesters, and his baby brother.

Lucifer never would have thought that they would come to him, ask him for help. It wasn't supposed to be that easy.

Lucifer smiled, despite the pain in his bones. He was in another World, but his mission was not hopeless. He got one of them. He inflicted pain.

Lucifer felt no sorrow for Castiel. Castiel had been a pain in his ass for too long, and spending time in his baby brother's head had shown to Lucifer just how pathetic Castiel truly was. Lucifer had made an offer to Castiel, years ago, when this had all started. Castiel refused. Castiel got what was coming to him.

But with Castiel gone, Lucifer anticipated Sam and Dean would be much easier to destroy. Without their precious guardian angel looming over their shoulders every second of the day, they were defenseless. Lucifer pondered whether or not he should bring Mary Winchester's decimated corpse back over to his World, once he figured out how to re-open that portal. It would be a nice touch to the Winchesters' torment.

Another crack of thunder sounded overhead. The ground shook and cracked, like a scar, tearing big and black. Lucifer couldn't help the grin that spread across his face. Adrenaline pumped through him.

Maybe this World wasn't that bad. Maybe he could like it here.

He walked forward a bit more, stepping over the fissures and bodies he came across. Angels, demons, and humans alike were scattered across the ground like litter.

He felt the presence behind him instantaneously. He smiled and tapped his foot.

"Nice place you got here," Lucifer said in a sing-song voice. "Do I have to take my shoes off, or. . .?"

"How did you get here?" the Other Lucifer said.

Lucifer spun on his heels and grinned. The Other Lucifer was in a different vessel, but one Lucifer recognized nonetheless. Vince Vincente had been a fun ride. All the iniquities of humanity and he didn't even have to work for them. Sex, parties, alcohol—they were all just handed to him. Lucifer almost wished Vince had been his true vessel instead of Sam Winchester. Crowley's tinkering made sure that this vessel—Nick—wouldn't fall apart, but it was still uncomfortable. It felt too small for him, like he was trying to fit the last piece of garbage into an already overflowing, ripped bag.

"A true magician never reveals their secrets," Lucifer said with a shrug.

The Other Lucifer snorted.

Lucifer craned his neck and looked around, to the sky, to the ground. He stared at a body of an angel, eyes burned out, wings seared into the ground.

"Look," Lucifer said, taking a small step forward. The Other Lucifer drew his sword.

"Woah," Lucifer said, putting his hands out in a placating manner. "I don't put out on the first date."

The Other Lucifer's eyes narrowed. He stared at Lucifer with scrutiny. "Who banished you?"

Lucifer clenched his teeth together. "A little mouse." He stuck his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "Nothing to worry about, though. She came from my World. I'll take care of her, and then I'll get back to my World. Leave you to your work."

The Other Lucifer growled. "You brought a human into my World?"

"Relax," Lucifer said. "She's just one human. A mouse, like I said!"

Lucifer took a step forward. The Other Lucifer tightened his grip on his sword. Lucifer snorted. He debated bringing his sword out, then decided not to. Not yet, at least. This being in front of him was like him, but it was not him. He was Lucifer. This other being was still the Other Lucifer.

And if this came into a battle, Lucifer was going to win.

"We want the same thing," Lucifer said. "I want to get back to my World. You want me back in my World. How about you help me out?"

The Other Lucifer shook his head and chortled. "Are you crazy? Why would I help you out?"

"To get me gone?"

"It would be much easier just to kill you."

The Other Lucifer raised his sword and poised it in a sparring position. Lucifer stepped back.

"Point," Lucifer said. "But maybe I can help you out."

"What could you possibly give me? Look around you!" Lucifer spread his arms out wide and laughed. A real, victorious laugh. "I've already won! Look at this World! It's been blown apart, just as God always meant it to be."

Lucifer's mouth twitched at the corners. "Yeah, good for you. I guess you didn't have two very annoying monkeys on your back, huh?"

The Other Lucifer frowned. "There were a few humans who tried to fight in the beginning. Most of them are dead now. I estimate, worldwide, that there's less than one million people still alive. Most of them are hiding. They're not worth the fight. Even less do try and fight, but, uh," Other Lucifer shrugged and chortled. "They're funny, aren't they?" Other Lucifer cocked his head. "Humans. Scurrying around bup bup bup. It's useless, of course. There's nothing they can do. They're deluded. They think they stand a chance against me, against this."

Lucifer smiled forcefully. The lines on his face deepened. "Yeah," he said, and tried to cover up the anger boiling under his skin. Hearing this Other Lucifer go on and on only made him that much more determined to kill those Winchester apes, slowly, painfully. Castiel, regrettably, had died too quickly for Lucifer's enjoyment. Oh well. He would just have to make up for it with Dean and Sam.

Other Lucifer stared at him. "Got something to say?"

"Let's just say," Lucifer said, "the Apocalypse in my World had a few hiccups in the road. But don't worry, it's coming along nicely."

Other Lucifer laughed. "Hmm, is that it?"

"Absolutely," Lucifer spat. "See, in my World, Dad had this whole uh, destiny thing planned. True vessels, you know."

"Vessels," Other Lucifer said, shaking his head. "Not Dad's best idea, eh?"

Lucifer snorted. "So, you going to help me or not?"

Other Lucifer paused for a moment. Then he drew his sword back into the ether. Lucifer grinned. Other Lucifer walked closer.

"Just so you know," Other Lucifer said, "alternate universes aren't my specialty. Timelines are messy." Lucifer sucked in a breath. He drummed his fingertips together. "But, I don't want you mucking up this World."

"What about killing me?" Lucifer raised his eyebrows.

Other Lucifer scoffed. He shrugged. "What can I say? The thought of me, even another me, losing just is an awful idea. I don't want any Michael to win."

"Glad we agree on something," Lucifer said. "So. . ."

Other Lucifer reached out and grabbed Lucifer by the arm harshly. Then they were flying through the ether.

.

.

.

Other Lucifer took them to Hell. Lucifer looked around, grinning.

"Like what you've done with the place," he said, toeing at a metal chain link that was supporting a damned soul. Wounded cries filled the air. Much better than what _Crowley_ had done with Hell. It still sent anger shivers down Lucifer's spine at the thought of what that pond scum had done to his kingdom—making it into a fucking reenactment of the Shark Tank room. Lucifer was glad he was dead.

This, though. This is what Hell was supposed to look like. Dark, bloody, filled with screams, desolate of hope and peace.

"We got Martha Stewart to do the decorations," Other Lucifer said.

"Really?"

Other Lucifer winked. "The things some people will sell their souls for. Humans. Not much foresight, eh?"

"So, how am I getting back to my World?" Lucifer rubbed his hands together. Above him a woman wailed, then sobbed.

Demons were stationed at the edge of the room. True minions, not at all like the ones Crowley had employed. Crowley's were snakes just like him, waiting for their opportunity to strike and take his place, but never having the balls to do it outright.

These minions wouldn't dare stage a mutiny. They were loyal. Even if it was out of fear.

"Well," Other Lucifer said. He motioned to the minions around him. "Anyone know how to get this guy back to his World?"

The minions looked down, avoiding eye contact.

Other Lucifer outstretched his arms. "Well? Anyone?"

Lucifer looked around. He jolted when he saw that he recognized someone. "Azazel?"

Azazel raised his head, grinning. His sickly yellow eyes shined in the darkness. "Hello, Lucifer," he said.

Lucifer looked at Other Lucifer. Other Lucifer grinned.

"Somethings transcend other universes, huh?" Other Lucifer asked.

"Azazel was my greatest ally." The first angel to stand by his side against God and Michael. Azazel had helped Lucifer form the other Princes. Ramiel, Dagon, and Asmodeus had been much trickier to subdue and sway. Lucifer wouldn't have succeeded without Azazel's help.

Not that Lucifer would ever admit it, of course. Besides, this was one juncture Azazel couldn't help him in. Not the sharpest tool in the shed. Lucifer just nodded in Azazel's direction.

"Anyone?" Lucifer called, putting a hand behind his ear. "Anyone at all know how to jump between realities?"

He heard a small noise from the crowd. Lucifer turned and was unable to keep the shock of his face.

Gabriel pushed his way out from the crowd, until he stood in the center, just on the outside of the two Lucifers. Lucifer stared at his brother. Gabriel looked the same as he had in Lucifer's World: wearing the guise of a Pagan god. Lucifer remembered when he slid his sword into his Gabriel's heart. He hadn't wanted to kill his brother, but Gabriel was someone Lucifer needed on his side, not as an adversary. Had Gabriel not turned coat, not decided to join the Winchesters, Lucifer would have been able to spare him.

He hoped things turned differently for this Gabriel.

"Hello, Gabriel," Lucifer said. "I must say, I am surprised. What brought you to this side?"

Gabriel's jaw clenched. "Do you really need to ask?"

"You want this World to be destroyed?" In his World, Gabriel had fallen into humanity and its pleasures, predominantly food and sex.

Gabriel blinked. "I want the fighting to stop," he said.

Lucifer snorted and shrugged. "Fair enough."

"My doppelganger," Other Lucifer said, "needs to be returned to his World as soon as possible, along with. . . his pet that followed him in."

Lucifer felt the glares of all the demons boring into him. Lucifer grinned. He was not perturbed by any of it. He was still an archangel. He still had the powers of God behind him. These pathetic slugs had nothing on him.

"Sorry," Lucifer said, clicking his tongue. "Really, I am. Didn't mean to interrupt whatever it is you guys have going here." He clapped his hands together. "So, Gabe. How do I get back home?"

"It's not that simple," Gabriel said, eyebrows narrowing. "Only God truly has the power to jump between Worlds."

"Buuuut," Lucifer gestured with his hand. Gabriel's frown deepened.

"Dad's skipped town, as you've probably guessed. But, there are weapons that might be able to do the deed. The Heavenly Weapons."

"Ah, yes," Lucifer said. They were very similar to the Hands of God Lucifer had searched for just last year to take down Amara. The Heavenly weapons were actually created with the purpose to be tools.

"Great. Where are they?"

"That's where the 'not that simple' comes in," Gabriel snapped. "They're guarded by Michael and his goons."

Lucifer rolled his eyes and snorted. "Is that it? Ooh, I'm so scared." Lucifer scoffed. "Michael's nothing to be scared of."

"Maybe not your Michael," Other Lucifer said. "But in this World, he's proven just a tad difficult to subdue. Heaven's been on lock-down since day one of this little debacle. We can't really sneak in and steal them."

"Sure we can," Lucifer said.

"Well, go right ahead and share your amazing, fantastic plan," Other Lucifer said, vitriol in his voice.

Lucifer was forming the plan already in his mind. He doubted Michael was aware of his presence. If he was, Lucifer knew that Michael would have tracked him down already. There wasn't a World where Michael wouldn't be watching his every move, Lucifer was sure of that. As far as Michael knew, there was only one Lucifer: this Other Lucifer standing in front of him.

Lucifer could use him as a decoy.

"Well," Lucifer said, shrugging. "Gabriel here has some tenure as trickster, if I'm not mistaken."

Gabriel's jaw tightened further.

"You can't call in a few favors with your Pagan BFFs? Have them cause a distraction?"

Gabriel barked out a bitter laugh. "Yeah, sure. They really want to stick their noses in our fight."

"They should. The fate of the World is kind of their problem too." Lucifer bit his lip. He tried to recall all the details from his World that he could. "C'mon, bro. What are you scared of? Scorned ex-girlfriend?"

"Shut up," Gabriel said.

"He presents a good point," Azazel said, stepping forward. He stood by Lucifer. "Your friends have been very quiet on that front. They're gods too. They should have enough power behind them to aid us in our fight."

"Exactly," Gabriel said. "It's _our_ fight. They don't want anything to do with it. Have told me themselves."

"Well, I guess if they want to die. . ." Lucifer said.

Gabriel's eyes darkened. "Is that a threat?"

"They're going to die if they don't help," Lucifer said. It was a simple concept. Their chances for survival were higher if they helped than if they remained hidden. "Seems like simple math to me."

Gabriel continued to glare at him. Lucifer smiled, wide and bright. Other Lucifer turned to Gabriel.

"Gabriel, go see if you can't convince your friends to join our sides. Breaking into Heaven's vault is a mission that will need as much power we can muster."

Gabriel was quiet for a long moment. "And if they refuse?"

"Then you'll just have to use your powers of persuasion," Other Lucifer said. "Or I'll use mine."

Gabriel swallowed. His wings twitched uneasily, causing the slightest bit of a gold glare to cut through the blackness. Above them, a female voice shrieked, "Yeeees! Yes! I'll do it, I'll do whatever you want, just please, _please_ , stop it!"

Lucifer craned his neck up for the source of the voice, but he couldn't follow it. He smiled anyway. "This place is so homey," he said.

Gabriel snorted.

"Well?" Lucifer said, tilting his head. He motioned with his hand. "What are you waiting for, get going!"

Gabriel disappeared with a large flap of wings, creating a brief gust of wind. Lucifer looked around again, at the Other Lucifer, at Azazel, and the demons. A thought came to him suddenly.

"What do you gentlemen know of Castiel?"

Other Lucifer's eyebrows narrowed. He looked at everyone else, but their expressions matched his. "Who?"

"Castiel. Angel. Annoying little bugger. This World got one?"

Other Lucifer stood straight. "Can't say I've heard that name."

Lucifer's grin widened. Oh, this was too perfect.


	12. Chapter 12

_Good friends will follow you anywhere_

-Winnie the Pooh

CHAPTER TWELVE

"Wait," Bobby said. His voice broke Mary's concentration. She paused on the stairwell, grip tightening on the bannister. Bobby stood up, his chair screeching on the wood floor harshly. His footsteps were heavy and purposeful. "Wait."

"What?" Mary snapped.

Bobby fidgeted behind her. "You're really serious about this?"

"Yes, I am." She didn't bother covering the bite in her voice. They'd been over this already. She was not in the mood to hash it out again.

Bobby sighed. "Then I'm going with you."

Mary's stomach dropped down to her feet. She turned around. Bobby was looking up at her with wide, fearful eyes. "You are? What about—"

"I know what I said," Bobby said gruffly. "But I can't in good conscience let you go out and get yourself killed."

"Oh, you can't huh?"

"Yeah. Especially for something so stupid."

Mary rolled her eyes.

"Just quit the attitude for five minutes, will ya? You won't survive out there on your own, not long. By yourself, I'd give you five, ten minutes tops before you're angel meat. You haven't lived in this World, haven't even begun to see what it's really like out there."

"I think I have a pretty good idea," Mary said, rubbing her temple. It was still sore and crusted in blood. She thought of the giant pillars that broke through the Earth like mountains, and the bodies and blood speared over them. The gray, utter bleakness. The celestial battles overhead, cutting through that grayness with bright flashes of yellows, blues, oranges and rumbles that rocked the earth.

Bobby scoffed and shook his head. "No, Mary, you haven't. You've only seen a glimpse. What are you going to do about food? Water? Shelter? Wildlife is nearly all destroyed, and you can't go to sleep anywhere with a guarantee that you'll wake up. Alone is dangerous."

"You've been alone for a long time. Seem to be doing pretty well for yourself."

"Well, I've had this place." Bobby gestured with his arms, around the Bunker. "It helps not getting killed when the killers can't get in."

Mary couldn't help but snort in good humor.

"Out there, you've got nothing. No food, no water, no medicine."

While Bobby spoke, Mary stared at his face, the lines around his eyes and mouth, the grays in his hair. Bobby was like many men Mary had known: a tough, stony exterior, but underneath they were soft as pudding. Like Dean, she thought sadly, unable to help it. Bobby was lonely. Mary could read it in his eyes, the way he held himself, the crack in his voice just now.

"Well," Mary said. "If you're sure."

Bobby was quiet for a moment. Then, "I've never been more sure of anything in my life."

"Good."

Another pause. "We'll need rations. As much as we can carry. Don't know how far we'll have to walk to find this Gabriel fella, but it's best to be prepared. And I need to teach you the banishing sigil before you even think about stepping outside that door."

Mary smiled.

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.

.

The sigil wasn't overly complicated. Mary had it down in just a few attempts, under Bobby's careful guidance. He smiled at her in approval, and then they worked on packing. Bobby gave Mary two old, battered military grade knapsacks. She opened the pantry door, and couldn't hold back the groan when she was faced with nothing but a mountain of soup cans. But, beggars couldn't be choosers. She stuffed one sack to the brim with cans, a can opener, and several packs of little plastic spoons. In the second sack, she filled it halfway with cans, and then stuffed the rest of it with blankets. When she was done, both sacks were very heavy. Mary grunted when she hoisted them up, slinging them over her shoulders. She put in her belt loop an angel blade Bobby had handed over to her. He also gave her a gun holster, where she carried on her hip an old pistol loaded with silver bullets.

Bobby filled his sacks with several types of ammunition: simple lead, witch killing, angel killing, and several MREs. Mary stared at the angel killing bullets for a long time. They weren't as heavy as normal bullets. The question was evident in her eyes.

"Melted down a couple of angel blades," Bobby muttered, stuffing his sack full. "Work pretty good for taking down angels quick, but they take a long time to make, and the blades are hard to come by, so don't use them unless you really need to. Your damn son used up almost all of my supply already."

Mary's throat tightened as she stared down at the bullets. She wrapped her hand around them for a moment and inhaled shakily. Then she loaded them into her gun, the magazine snapping into place.

Bobby also had in his sack bags of salt, and bottles of water.

"We'll really have to ration water," he said sadly. "But hopefully we won't have to go too far to find this Gabriel guy. Actually, we'll probably die long before we run out of water."

"Thanks for being so optimistic, Bobby," Mary said.

"It's what gets me up in the morning," Bobby said.

Mary smiled.

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.

.

At the top of the staircase, Bobby leaned over the bannister, both bags slung heavily over his shoulders. He held the tension in his shoulders, cords of muscles busting out through his skin.

"I'm going to miss this place," Bobby said glumly.

"You could come with me, you know," Mary said. She swallowed. She adjusted the bag on her shoulders, rotating the joint. "My World isn't so bad."

Bobby turned around, a sad smile on his face. "I appreciate the offer, but. . . I shouldn't."

Mary flinched, like she'd been slapped. "Why not?"

"This World. . . it's a dark, dangerous, shitty World. But it's my World. And this is where I belong. Just like how you don't belong here, but back in your World. Your, uh, angel buddy asked me something similar."

Mary frowned in surprise. "Castiel asked you to come back with him?"

"Yeah," Bobby chuckled and rubbed his hand against his beard. "'Course the way he described it, didn't sound like it was a much better place than here. I mean, Lucifer having a kid? That doesn't sound like a can of worms I want to open."

Mary huffed. "Yeah. But it doesn't have to be a bad thing. This Nephilim, Lucifer's his father. But he's not Lucifer."

Mary held Kelly's hand as the woman died, bleeding and torn. It had been all the comfort she could offer a dying woman. She was thrown back in time, when she was in similar pain, giving birth to Dean. Except she had epidurals at her disposal, a team of doctors ready by her side. But when the contractions were at their worst, John had reached over and held her hand, squeezed it tight, given Mary something other than the pain between her legs to focus on.

And the next thing she knew, the room was pierced with a shrill, breathy cry, and the doctor smiling over her knees, proclaiming, "It's a boy!"

When the doctor put Dean on her chest, she was instantly filled with a painful, intense bout of love. It nearly consumed her. And it wasn't just hormones, wasn't just the adrenaline pumping in her veins. It was something in her soul.

Kelly didn't get to hold her son. She had died just as the baby came out.

But when Mary first looked at Dean, she was elated. Flushed and wrinkly and crying, but eyes shining and brilliant. She looked at her precious baby boy, and couldn't ever imagine him being capable of evil.

Bobby was looking at Mary strangely. "He's a baby," Mary said, swallowing. "Babies aren't capable of evil."

"So, you're gonna go back and play Mary Poppins to him."

"If I have to," Mary said strongly. Bobby looked at her with hooded eyes. Mary snorted and rubbed her face. "Whatever. We should get going. Just. . . know that the offer stands, if you change your mind."

Bobby just grunted.

.

.

.

When she stepped outside, the large metal door of the Bunker groaned pitifully as it slammed shut, rattling the ground beneath their feet. Mary's feet rattled.

Then she noticed the heat. It hit her like a Mac truck, and the air was knocked out of her lungs. A bead of sweat ran down the nape of her neck. Bobby walked in front of her, seemingly undisturbed by the sweltering air. Mary gulped. Her throat was already dry.

She began to follow Bobby up the stairs and onto the worn path. She looked up at the sky. "How can it be so hot without the sun?" she asked.

Bobby chuckled. "Gamma radiation, or something." He pointed up to the sky. "Think the angels make it when they fight. What you saw last time? Not even close to a real battle. When they get going, they get going."

Mary tightened her hold on her sack. Bobby walked with purpose. He held no resemblance to the reluctant man she had argued with earlier today. "You know where we're going?" she asked.

Bobby paused. He looked back to the sky. A ripple of orange cut through the clouds and dust, and dispersed in every direction, loosely like water. "Ever heard of Stull Cemetery?" Bobby asked.

Mary chewed on her lip. The name sounded familiar. She thought it was part of the story Sam and Dean had told her, where the battle for the Apocalypse was supposed to begin. She relayed the thought to Bobby. Bobby chuckled.

"Yeah, that's one way to put it, I guess. It was where the big showdown all began. There's a power source in that cemetery. I figure our best bet to find this Gabriel guy is to go to Stull and see if he'll show up." Bobby shook his head and snorted. "Who would've guessed that the Apocalypse would've started in Kansas of all places? I mean, if it were Los Angeles, or New York City, or Las Vegas, I'd get that. But Lawrence, Kansas?" Bobby sighed, then smiled bitterly. "Guess the Universe has a sense of humor, at least."

Mary smiled bitterly in return. Sweat collected on the collar of her shirt. Her pants began to stick to her legs. She readjusted her sack, and touched the hilt of the angel blade in her belt loop, ensuring it was still there.

"How far?" she asked.

"It's a little over two hundred miles," Bobby said, smacking his lips. "It'll take us at least a few days to get there, and that's without the worry of being smited by angels, or attacked by demons."

A giant clap of thunder roared overhead. It shook the ground. Mary staggered and nearly fell, but Bobby reached out at the last second and steadied her.

"God, what I would give for a cig," Bobby muttered impatiently. "I'm getting too old for this shit, you should know."

Mary grinned playfully. "Come on," she said, tugging at Bobby's sleeve. "Two hundred miles, huh. Every step counts."

She pushed past Bobby. She heard him begin to grumble behind her before his footsteps reappeared. Mary grinned


	13. Chapter 13

_Do not go gentle into that good night,  
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;  
Rage, rage against the dying of the light._

 _Though wise men at their end know dark is right,  
Because their words had forked no lightning they  
Do not go gentle into that good night._

 _-Do not go gentle into that good night,_ Dylan Thomas

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The hospital cot was the most uncomfortable thing Dean had ever slept on, ever. More uncomfortable than the back seat of the Impala after he turned thirteen and had his growth spurt. More uncomfortable than the hardwood floors of bars and clubs after one drink too many. More uncomfortable than any motel bed, littered from headboard to footboard with suspicious stains.

He tossed and turned all night, the thin mattress squeaking with every minute movement, even when he just curled his toes. He spent nearly the entire night facing Cas. Light reflected off all the various monitors onto Cas, just enough that Dean could make out his form underneath the blankets and wiring. That awful ventilator was still snaked through his mouth, pushing and pulling, pushing and pulling, in a manic pattern that was nearly driving Dean insane.

He was terrified to go to sleep. Terrified to go back to the Murky Place, and he was terrified of everything yet to come, all the trials of his and Cas's relationship waiting sinisterly to be paraded in front of him. He was terrified of that other Cas, the one that didn't speak, with the red eyes, just standing mutely beside him. He was terrified of Cas never waking up.

It had been almost a week now, and Cas had shown no signs of nearing consciousness. The opposite seemed to be happening. He seemed to be getting worse. Dr. Whitaker said Cas was stable now, and nurses came every half hour on the dot to check vitals and the Foley bag, but it did nothing to ease Dean's nerves. He could still hear Dr. Whitaker's voice over the phone, crunching in the static, saying that Castiel crashed. Dean hadn't been there, but he could imagine the monitors above Cas's head going wild, beeping erratically and deafeningly. He had watched enough _Doctor Sexy_ in his life to know what the scene would have looked like: doctors and nurses surrounding Cas like vultures on a corpse, screaming over the monitors, the crunch of bones under hands as CPR was performed—because that's what CPR did.

His dad's voice rang in his ears, still after all these years, echoing lessons decades old. _CPR_ , dad had said. _If you're not breaking ribs, you're doing it wrong._

Dean swallowed and clamped his eyes shut tightly. He counted his breaths. Tried to put them in synchronization with Cas's, with the push and pull of the ventilator that sat bedside like a dragon, waiting for the perfect opportunity to devour its prey.

He tried to fight that voice in his head with reasoning. Cas was okay. He was still alive, still fighting. Cas was a fighter. He was going to kick this coma's ass, and wake up, and everything was going to be _fine._ It had to be _fine._

During one of the check-ins by the nurse, she offered Dean a sad smile. "I can see about giving you something if you'd like," she said. "Something to help you sleep?"

Dean politely declined her offer. He didn't want to be drugged into unconsciousness. He didn't want to take his eyes off Cas. The nurse looked back over at Cas. "Don't you worry, hon," she said. "He's tough as nails. I can tell."

"Yeah," Dean said, licking his lips. They were beginning to chap. The nurse left. Dean wondered why he had never seen Lisa before on this floor.

At about six am he gave up trying to sleep. His back ached in protest. He walked into the bathroom and splashed water on his face. His skin was pale, eyes bloodshot. He began to wonder if he had made a mistake, not taking up the nurse's offer of a sleep aid. It had just been an awful night all together, what with Lisa showing up out of the blue, peeling open scabs Dean had thought scarred long ago, and then he'd been stupid enough to go back to the lake house, just to see those stupid wing prints—and he hadn't even learned anything from them, still couldn't confirm if Cas's wings had stayed amputated after he hacked it off himself—and then to get that phone call. . .

Dean felt he had aged ten years in just one night. He rubbed his hands into his face. He could use a shave. The stubble was too rough against his palms. His mouth was dry. He cupped his hands together and collected the water, scooping it up to his face. It was lukewarm, and Dean's stomach lurched as it was suddenly filled.

Dean wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He turned the water off and left the bathroom. He stood in the doorway for a bit, staring at Cas. He stood there for a full minute then left the room. He couldn't just stand there and stare. He hated feeling useless. He needed to do something. Find a hunt, kill a monster, save a person. Or maybe he could just help an old lady across the street. He just needed something mindless, that would distract him for just five minutes from this never ending shitstorm.

He nearly collided into Dr. Whitaker in the hallway.

"Sorry," Dean muttered. "Don't you ever go home?" he said with a joking smile. Dr. Whitaker returned it.

"I could ask you the same thing," he said. Dean cleared his throat.

"Yeah, well. Home's back in Kansas. Don't really got anything to go back to just yet."

Dr. Whitaker regarded Dean sadly. Dean fidgeted under the gaze.

"Last night was scary," Dr. Whitaker said. Dean swallowed. "And of course we'll keep close eyes on Castiel, but you do need to take care of yourself as well, Dean."

Dean huffed and looked at his shoes. The tile was pristine white, glaring against the harsh overhead lights. Everything stunk of bleach.

"Look, doc, no offense, but I've heard this spiel all before."

"Then why haven't you learned? When Castiel wakes," Dean tried to not emote on his face as Dr. Whitaker casually used _when_ , not _if_ , "he's still going to need care. This is the darkest part of the road, certainly, but the rest of the road is pretty damn dark. It's going to be a slow recovery. He's going to need you at one-hundred percent. And honestly son, you look like hot shit."

Dean bristled, but couldn't muster up the energy to be offended.

"Go wherever it is your staying. Sleep. Eat some real food, none of that fast food shit you've been scarfing down. You're too young to be clogging your arteries like that. And for God's sake, take a shower."

Dean stared at him. He shifted on his heels. "You're not giving me a choice, are you?"

Dr. Whitaker smiled. "Nope."

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.

.

The water sluiced over his skin. Steam curled from the porcelain floor, blurring Dean's vision. His skin was turning pink, nerves tingling, and Dean relished the slight pain. It gave him something to latch onto, a slight distraction from everything that was going on around him. He shampooed, lathering his hair until it was nothing but thick, white foam, bubbles popping over the sound of the water.

He stood there until the water turned cold, and he waited as the pain shifted, from burning to freezing, before he eventually forced himself out. He shaved completely, not even leaving behind his usual level of stubble, and then he dressed in sweatpants and an old t-shirt. He sat down on the bed and turned on the TV.

He sat there and watched five minutes of _Dr. Sexy_ before the anxiety washed over him again. He tapped his foot, bit on his fingernails, and tried to pretend it was from the episode, even though it was one he'd seen at least three times before.

He turned the TV off and swiped his keys to the car, destination in mind. Cas was going to need a new wardrobe for when he got out of the hospital, and Dean wanted to have it ready.

He drove to the nearest Wal-Mart, parking far in the back, away from everyone else. The Impala was always a pain in the ass to park in crowded places, and Dean would rather have to walk further than risk someone door-dinging him.

He walked into Wal-Mart, nodded politely but disinterestedly at the greeter, then headed straight for the Men's section. Dean spent less than two minutes thumbing through graphic tee's before he realized that he had no clue what size Cas was, for anything. He would have to estimate, but Dean preferred his clothes slightly baggy, so he grabbed one size up from what he thought he needed. It's not like it was his own money he was spending anyway.

Cas had spent too long in an ill-fitted suit and coat. Dean's main objective here was comfort. He got three pairs of jeans, and a few pairs of sweat-pants. He got several different tee shirts, some just plain colored, some with old logos, and some that were button ups. Of course Dean got some flannel, because that was the Winchester way.

Shoes were a bit harder. Dean could only go off his own size, and he grabbed some tennis shoes and slippers. They could look at work boots later, when Cas was feeling better.

It was almost an hour later when Dean realized the cart was nearly full. He headed towards the check-out when he saw it. A long, black trench coat hanging off the edge of a DVD corrugate, abandoned. Dean picked it up. The fabric was soft, but sturdy, lined with a gray material that was similar to satin. It was similar to the old trench coat, the first one, that billowed behind Cas as he walked like wings. It had the two pockets on the outside, and one inner breast pocket.

In the past, Dean had teased Cas about the trench coat fetish. John Constantine, Dean had called him, smiling to himself at Cas's exasperated expression. _I don't understand that reference, Dean. Shut the fuck up, Dean._ Everything Cas wouldn't say sat there plain as day on his eyebrows, in the creases on his forehead.

But Cas liked the trench coats. Dean didn't know if it was just imprinting from having worn one so long, or if Cas really did just like the style, the way it felt. They all had their security blankets. Dean for the longest time had the amulet Sam had given him when they were children. For years, he only took it off to shower. He threw it away, eventually, but he still had other trinkets. Dad's wedding rings was one still precious to his heart. And Sam had his laptop, strange as that sounded; it was a source of comfort to him to, to have all that knowledge at his fingertips.

Cas had the trench coat.

Dean didn't have to think twice. He tossed it into the cart, right on top.

.

.

.

When he fell asleep in the motel room that night, courtesy of a few doses of Extra Strength Nyquil, he did so with the intention of finding the Murky Place. The key to waking Cas up was there, he was sure of it. He wasn't sure how, or why, but he knew without a shadow of doubt that he needed to go back there. Something about Cas's memories were the key.

Based on what Dean had already seen, he knew some of what to expect to be paraded around him. A lot of it was not going to be pleasant. But Dean was prepared. And he was committed. This was what he had to do to save Cas, so there was no question about it.

He closed his eyes and tried to get as comfortable as the motel bed would allow. When he opened his eyes again, he was already in the Murky Place. And Cas, his Cas, was right beside him.

"I'm getting pretty good at this, huh?" Dean said, trying to find any levity he could. It didn't work. Cas still wouldn't look at him, eyes directed away and to the side. Dean swallowed, but he reached out and took Cas's hand in his own.

"Hey," he said, licking his lips. "Whatever it is we'll see, we'll see together. Okay? I'm right here?" Dean squeezed Cas's hand.

He turned to face forward, inhaling deeply.

He saw Castiel in Purgatory, always keeping a steady pace, ducking and dodging and changing course constantly, looking over his shoulder for any monsters that followed. There were several. He killed monster after monster, mainly Leviathan, their wide, toothy mouths screaming as he plunged his blade through their hearts. Castiel rarely rested, even at night, even if he was injured from scratches or bites, close calls.

Dean recognized his own voice. It played over the memory like a soundtrack.

 _Cas, buddy? You okay?_

The prayers started tentative, hopeful, layered in some worry.

 _What got you? Did you get lost? Cas, you got your ears on? I'm by the big oak tree. It's got orange leaves._

Castiel kept walking, though his face was pinched with pain as the prayer played. As the days dragged on, the prayers shifted. They became angrier.

 _You goddamned son of a bitch. Where the hell are you!_

Dean winced as the memory played. Some of the prayers eventually became really, really harsh.

 _That's it, huh? You're just gonna ditch me here?_

The monsters never stopped coming. All that time, Castiel never got a reprieve from the monsters.

Then they were reunited and still the monsters never stopped coming, but Dean hadn't cared. He had found Castiel. After almost a year of thinking that Castiel surely must have died, and that's why he was ignoring him, he found Castiel. Castiel's excuse that he was leading the Leviathan away from Dean proved to be true when Dean dealt with them near constantly those last few weeks as they tried to find the exit back home.

Dean got out. Castiel didn't. Castiel let go, and shoved Dean back into the portal, and then he slide down the muddy slope, and the portal closed behind, leaving behind a heavy silence. Castiel inhaled deeply several times. He pulled his knees to his chest and rested his forehead against them. He shuddered and sat there for a long time.

Dean wasn't sure how much time passed in the memory. The next thing that was shown to him as Castiel sitting in a sterile, doctor's looking type room, in front of the angel Dean knew to be Naomi. He watched Naomi threaten Castiel, saying Castiel owed them for pulling him out.

And then he saw the torture.

Dean's stomach churned, twisting like it was stuck in a washing machine. He closed his eyes, unable to help himself as Castiel screamed against the drill Naomi was shoving into him. He knew, logically, that Naomi had hurt Castiel. But he never really gave thought to the instruments. Cas never talked about it. He never asked.

When Dean opened his eyes, it was to Castiel refusing to kill clones of him, fighting, until Naomi had him dragged back to the torture chamber, the process repeating and repeating until finally, finally, Castiel killed one of the clones. Naomi smiled appraisingly at Castiel, and it was like snakes slide down Dean's spine.

More and more. Dean saw Castiel hiding from the angels by jumping from one Biggerson's to another, until he was caught by Naomi and Crowley. He saw Castiel trying to mend the bridges with Dean by buying groceries. He saw when Metatron sliced out Castiel's grace and threw him to Earth to watch the sky fill with the other angels.

He saw Castiel struggling from one homeless shelter to the next, having to keep leaving because angels were tracking him and people were endangered, until he ended up rooting in a dumpster on a rainy night for food. Until a woman came out and offered him food and shelter.

It skipped from there. Dean was expecting to see Castiel being killed by the reaper bitch, expecting to see Castiel's face again as Memory Dean told him he had to leave.

It skipped to that moment when Dean entered the Gas N Sip, smiling wide and bright.

He saw Castiel speaking to Nora's baby, telling everything he could never tell anyone else. He saw Castiel on his knees, pleading with Ephraim that he didn't want to die, even as his voice cracked and betrayed him.

He saw Castiel reaching into his jean pockets, long after Dean had deposited him back at the gas station; saw, for the first time, Castiel sleeping in the stock room on a weather sleeping bag and a broken wrist. Castiel pulled out the FBI badge and stared at it for a long while.

Dean telling Castiel to scram at the bar. Castiel praying to angels for guidance in his despair Getting captured, tortured. Forced to watch his friend die. Forced to steal another angel's grace to survive.

Everything from that year played. The other angels coming to Castiel, practically begging him to lead them in the fight against Metatron. Castiel essentially being bullied into taking the role—but it was a role he was so good at. He organized his recruits well. Dean remembered laughing when he had first seen Castiel's set up. It looked like it came straight out of a bad British spy movie. But seeing all the work Castiel had put into it, and the respect the angels showed him, Dean couldn't help but be washed in newfound appreciation.

Then he saw himself, accusing Castiel of setting up the suicide bombings. This time, he really saw Castiel's face. The way it looked like Dean had slapped him and then kicked him right in the nuts. And part of that had come from the Mark. The desire to hurt, at least. But part of it had still been Dean, relied on Dean's knowledge to make such a comment. He couldn't place all the blame on the Mark. Part of him still refused to trust Castiel. Or at least admit that he trusted Castiel.

And even after all that, Castiel still stood up for him. Castiel stood tall and refused to kill him to gain Hannah's loyalty.

Dean realized that this, this exact moment, was when the angels lost all respect for Castiel. This was the moment when Castiel finally stepped all the way over that line, was the moment where there was no turning back.

"You knew, didn't you?" Dean asked his Cas. "You knew this was when they were going to shun you for good." Because up until that point, Castiel still managed to earn some respect from these angels. They'd still been willing to serve under him. Hell, they wanted him as their leader.

And once again, Castiel chose Dean over the angels, over Heaven. Dean scoffed. He looked down at their intertwined hands.

"You shouldn't have done it," Dean said, throat swelling. He thought of Cas in Ramiel's barn, saying they were family, saying knowing them had been the best part of his life like he meant it. "You stupid bastard." It was a whisper. Dean tried to sneak a look at his Cas again, but Cas's head was still down and angled away. "Me and Sam, we've been nothing but trouble to you. Me especially, I guess." Dean scoffed. He sighed. "I need you to wake up. Please. Because for as much trouble as I've caused you, I—I—I can't imagine life without you. Not anymore. I know it's selfish. But I need you, Cas. I want you."

Cas was silent.

Dean scoffed again and wiped his face with his sleeve. "I need you to wake up so I can tell you this in person. You deserve to hear it. For real. With words."

Dean swallowed. He was choking on the words. He wanted to say more, but the words wouldn't come up. They were stuck low in his throat, the feeling similar to when he dry swallowed pills. He decided it didn't matter. He had to wait. Cas needed to hear this for real. Dean needed to grow a pair and tell Cas. Not hide behind this dream.

He closed his eyes tightly and when he opened them again, he was back in the motel room, awake. His cellphone was ringing on the nightstand, vibrating and rattling against the wood.

Dean moaned and bit down on his lip. The sun was starting to peek in through the blinds, landing right on Dean's face. Dean closed his eyes against the harsh light and reached out for his phone. He answered the call.

"What?" he said, barely holding back his snap.

"Good morning to you too," Sam said.

Dean sighed. He forced his eyes open, vision fuzzy as it adjusted to the light. "Hey, Sam. How's the hunt for Lucifer junior going?" He forced himself into a sitting position. He braced his back against the headboard. Through the other side of the wall, he could hear his neighbors going at it. He made a face, even though no one else could see it.

"Fine," Sam said. "I mean, we don't really have any information, but me and Jody are still good."

Dean rolled his eyes. For someone that went to Stanford on a full-ride scholarship, his brother was an idiot. "How about you stop lying to me, Sam," Dean snapped.

"I'm not lying!"

"I know your lying voice."

Sam bristled. "I do not have a lying voice."

"Do too." Dean forced himself out of bed, pressing against the kink in his spine. He walked towards the little kitchenette counter and prodded at the coffee packets. "You speak slower. So, cough it up. Tell me what's going on."

Sam was quiet on the other end, his breathing heavy. He sighed. "We found some of Jack's feathers at the farm. Well, we think they're Jack's. Definitely angel feathers, though."

"Yeah?" Dean spooned a cup of instant coffee into the maker and started it. "Hey, that's a start. See, there was no need to keep that from me."

"Asmodeus stole one."

The coffee maker gurgled loudly. "What?" Dean finally found his voice.

"Asmodeus. He was following us or something. He came into our motel room. He was able to get past the wards and everything. He stole the feather right out of my hand. He's going to use it to try and track Jack down."

Dean swallowed. He watched the coffee begin to drip down into the pot. "So we don't have a feather anymore?"

"We do. One. I found two at the farm. Asmodeus only knew about the one."

Dean's chest uncoiled. Some of the tension washed out of his body, but it still hung low in his gut. "Okay." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Okay. That's. . . that's not terrible. You still have the one." Dean licked his lips. The coffee maker screamed. Dean pulled the pot out. "Wait a minute, were you planning on doing a summoning spell?"

"Kind of out of options, Dean," Sam snapped. "We need to find Jack, and with the way he's playing Carmen Sandiego, we're not going to be able to find him on our own! We've got holy oil. We've got wardings. We're not in danger."

"You don't know that! This isn't just some hybrid, Sam. This is _Lucifer_ 's kid. Remember? Lucifer was able to put the holy fire out!"

"After a few minutes. Besides, we need to find him before Asmodeus does. We can't risk Asmodeus killing him."

Dean had bugs under his skin, crawling inside his bones. Anxiety was inside his bone marrow and it crawled all the way into the deep folds of his brain. He bit his knuckles hard enough to break the skin.

"Sam," he eventually broke out.

"Dean," Sam said, voice calm. There was something underneath, something Dean couldn't quite place. "I can do this. I've got Jody with me. It'll be okay. You let me go on my own to defeat the Brits, remember? I can do this too. I'm not your responsibility."

Dean clamped his eyes shut. He focused on his breathing, forced himself to inhale to full capacity, then exhale all the way out.

Sam was right. He knew that Sam was right. Sam was an adult. And he was a damn fine hunter. He let Sam go once, and Sam came back to him, fine and proud of himself.

"Okay," Dean said. He still couldn't quiet the soft, insidious whispers rooted at the base of his skull, but he tried to mute them with a louder voice, one that reminded him of Sam's competency, determination. "Okay. You're right."

He could hear Sam's smile. "Say that again."

"You're right," Dean snapped. "You can handle this. And we need to find Jack ASAP. So, go do your summoning spell or whatever. See if it even works. Jack hasn't brought Armageddon on us yet. That has to mean something, right?"

"It means everything," Sam said.

"Go. Go do it now before Moe can track him down."

"Wait." Sam's voice broke the calm determination it had carried this entire conversation and now was starting to slide towards panic. "How's Cas doing?"

Dean paused. "Fine," he said. "I guess. No change."

Sam sighed sadly on the other end. "Jack will fix him up."

"You sure about that?"

"Whatever it was that happened down at the Heaven Gate. . . Jack chose Cas to protect him. Hell, Jack saved Cas from Dagon. That has to mean something too."

Dean still wasn't convinced. He wanted to know why Jack ran away if he cared. He wanted this conversation to be over.

"Call me as soon as you finish up the spell, or talking to him, or whatever."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

Sam huffed then hung up. Dean listened to the dial tone for several seconds before he hung up. He stared down at the coffee pot. The coffee was cold. He dumped it down the sink and grabbed the car keys off the table.

.

.

.

Dr. Whitaker sighed. "Son, how many times do I have to tell you?"

"Yeah, yeah," Dean said. "Look, I get what you're trying to do. But I need to be here, even if I'm just staring at him. I might go crazy, but I'll go crazier if I'm anywhere else."

"Where's the other brother? The really tall one?"

"He. . . he had to go to work. It really couldn't be helped. Besides, he's able to distract himself with work. So you see I'm all he has right now."

Dr. Whitaker rolled his eyes. He moved away from the door.

"Thank you," Dean said.

.

.

.

"Okay, Cas," Dean said, staring at the bottle of pills in his hand. "We're going to finish this."

Dean took the three pills one by one, dry swallowing all of them. He grimaced, stomach churning as they slide down his throat. He hoped that the sleeping pills would keep him under long enough to get to the end of the Murky Place, the place where Cas's memories ended.

Dean popped the lid back onto the bottle. He stared at Cas for a moment, watched Cas's chest rise and fall slowly, but steady. His looked at the monitors, all the different numbers that correlated to heart rate, blood pressure, blood oxygen level. They were all steady.

"You're going to come out with me. Okay? You're not going to do that thing again. That v-fib thing. Okay? None of that. You're coming out with me."

Dean sighed. He crawled into the other bed and pulled the sheets over his head.

.

.

.

The Mark of Cain was one of the biggest mistakes Dean ever made. It was a stupid, rash mistake, and in retrospect Dean realized that Crowley had set up him taking it. Crowley had set up Dean taking the Mark and probably just waited in the background for however long it took Dean to get himself killed, so he could be there when Dean woke up as a demon.

Dean rubbed at his arm where the Mark used to be.

He watched Cas struggle through his grace sickness for a while, sleeping, feverish, with dark bags under his eyes and a pale pallor stuck to his skin, until Crowley forced the new grace down Cas's throat.

He watched Cas and Sam work together, behind his back, to try and find a cure. During his trip across the country, Cas and Sam spoke on the phone often, even when Cas didn't have new information. Dean watched a lot of Cas riverboat gambling, trying to get in with the locals, and failing badly.

"You sure you're a fed?" a man with a dead tooth and a cigarette hanging out the corner of his mouth asked Memory Castiel.

Castiel paused and glanced briefly to his badge. "Yes." Castiel's voice was steady but his eyes were wide.

The man scoffed. "I don't gotta talk to you. I know my rights."

Castiel shifted uncomfortably. Dean sighed and threw his head back. He supposed he and Sam did skip the tutorial on dealing with hostile witnesses when they tried giving Cas the crash course in hunting.

"I just want to ask you a few questions. Do you know—"

The man slammed his fist down on the table and stood up, stepping into Castiel's personal space, towering over him. It would've been funny under different circumstances, but Castiel stood his ground, didn't let fear mar his face.

"Get out of here before I throw your pasty ass out."

Even if this guy did have a few inches on Castiel, he wouldn't last ten seconds in a real fight. Castiel knew this, surely. But Castiel swallowed, pocketed his badge, and left.

Much of Castiel's year went the same. He tried to make friends with the locals by slipping into bars and clubs, playing cards or darts. He spoke to a few hunters who eyed Castiel in such a way Dean swore he'd never take Cas near any of them, ever. Sometimes Castiel found a witch or tracked down a crossroads demon, but it always ended the same. They had no information. There was no cure for the Mark. Then Castiel began to track down Cain and that was something else Dean wished he could just forget.

The memories began to speed up. Colors swirled around Dean like a tornado. He was trapped right in the center of it, with the memories stampeding before sometimes faster than he could comprehend. Castiel and Sam speaking with the psychic to get into contact with Bobby. Castiel babysitting Rowena while she translated the codex.

Dean knew what was coming. It was still something that slunk into his nightmares sometimes, still made his bones shift uncomfortably under his skin.

"Everyone you love will be dead. Everyone except me."

Dean swallowed uncomfortably.

"I don't want to hurt you."

"Oh," Memory Dean said. "That's not going to be a problem."

 _Why didn't you fight back_? Dean thought, refusing to open his eyes. He was forced to listen instead to the tables crashing; Memory Dean smashing Castiel's head against the table, over and over, throwing him across the room like he weighed nothing. That shouldn't have happened. Castiel was an angel and there once was a time when Dean couldn't even hit him without breaking his hand.

 _You should've fought back_.

"Next time I won't miss!" Memory Dean said, slamming the angel blade down into the books.

Dean exhaled slowly. He was so glad when the memory finally changed.

Castiel getting the ingredients for the spell from Crowley. Getting cursed by Rowena. Pleading to his asshole brothers for help, only to get strung up and skewered. Dean had to close his eyes for that one too.

As the memories went on, things began to fall into place. They got worse, too, but things began to make sense. Things Dean hadn't previously seen. Or maybe he just hadn't noticed. Castiel having a panic attack trying to leave the bunker, to him actually tracking Metatron down.

Ambriel told Castiel they were alike; helpers, hot heroes, and Dean wanted to skewer her right there. This was the tip of the iceberg. This was why Castiel would throw himself at Lucifer's feet, believing he was worthless. Dean swallowed thickly.

The next scene was one Dean didn't recognize. It was Lucifer and Castiel, alone, staring at each other.

"Funny how these things turn out, eh?" Lucifer said, smiling widely. "I mean, look at you!" Lucifer chortled. "If you had just said yes to me all those years ago you wouldn't be in this little predicament would you?"

Castiel's jaw tightened. Dean could see his mandible shifting underneath his skin.

Lucifer snorted. "Hey, don't look at me like that. It's not my fault! This is what you choose, isn't it? This is your 'free will'? Guess you really can't have your cake and eat it too."

"You should be tracking down the Darkness," Castiel said.

"I will, don't you worry your pretty little head about that. But who's to say I can't have a little fun while I'm out and about? Don't I deserve that at least?"

"No."

Lucifer stared at Castiel, deep and dark and long. He huffed. "Still so peculiar," Lucifer tsked.

"We're running out of time."

"Eh, not as fast as you think. Auntie Amara's gonna be down for the count for a while. That mass angel smiting may not have done her in, buuuuuut it definitely knocked her on her ass. She's gonna be licking her wounds for a while."

"Then we should find her while she's weakened."

Everything happened so fast. Lucifer crossed the space separating him and Castiel in a second, grabbing him by the neck and slamming him to the ground. Dean jumped in surprise and the breath was sucked out of his lungs.

"Are you telling me how to do my job?" Lucifer snarled. "Listen, kid. I think you've gotten a bit of a swelled head since last we saw one another. You asked me for my help. You need me. The Winchesters need me. Not you. Is that clear?"

Castiel groaned, hands going up to his throat. He kicked and struggled, but was unable to free himself from Lucifer's grip.

"Cas," Dean said, fear rushing into every cell of his body.

"You and me, we're not all that different," Lucifer said. "Not at all. I'm tuned back into the Host. I hear what they say about you. You and me are two sides of the same coin."

Lucifer said that and Dean felt like he'd been slapped in the face. Suddenly everything made sense. Pieces slotted together. Dean finally understood.

He looked to his left, where his Cas was still by his side. The red eyes hidden still, but that didn't matter anymore.

"This is how you see yourself," Dean said tonelessly. His heart squeezed in his chest. Ice flooded his veins. It hurt. It hurt so bad and he couldn't understand why. He felt like a rock dropped on his head, squishing him flat down like a bug. "You really think you're no better than him, don't you?"

The memory before him vanished. It was just him and Cas. The Cas that wouldn't look at him. That wouldn't wake up.

"That's bullshit. You know that, right? Cas, that's bullshit. You—you're nothing like Lucifer. Okay? _Nothing_." It became hard to speak. Words clogged in the bottom of his throat. It was hard to inhale. He was barely taking in enough, even though he knew this was just a dream, and that he really didn't need to breathe here. "You're better. You're good. Hear that? You're good, Cas. You're so good. You're a hero!"

Cas didn't look at him. He didn't respond, and he didn't make any sort of acknowledgement that he even heard Dean.

Now that he started, Dean couldn't stop. It was just word vomit, pouring out and out, with nothing and no one to stop him.

"You're my best friend. Me and Sam, we wouldn't be the same without you. You make us happy. You've made our lives better. Knowing us has been the best part of your life you said? Well, I feel the same. Knowing you. . ." Dean's chest shuddered. "You need to wake up. You bastard! You need to wake up! I'm not going to tell this to you here, in your, in your, whatever this is! I need to tell you to your stupid face okay? So wake up!"

Dean lunged forward, grabbing Cas by both sides of his face. He forced Cas's head his direction, forced it up, and this time Dean did not look away. He was not perturbed by the heinous, red eyes because know why they were there, knowing everything he knew now. . .

"You're not this," Dean said. He held eye contact. He was afraid of even blinking, cutting off the connection for even a second. "You're my best friend. You're family. I need you here."

Dean cupped the back of Cas's head. "Look at me," he said. "See me. I need you to come with me. Got it? This ain't Purgatory. You're not shoving me away this time. You're coming out with me."

Dean curled both hands tight into Cas's coat, as tight as he could. He held onto it like a life preserver. "You're coming out with me." Cas's eyebrows furrowed. He tilted his head.

"That's good," Dean said. "That's great. You're hearing me. Now come out with me."

Cas continued to stare at him.

"Cas. I need you."

Something clicked. Dean saw it in Cas's eyes. Cas reached up and latched on with his hands to Dean's shoulders.

Dean closed his eyes and focused all his energy onto waking up. All his energy into leaving this place. He never wanted to come back here.

Dean jerked awake to the sound of screeching. He was back in the hospital room, the noises hammering against his skull. Dean looked over.

"Cas!"

The monitors were going wild and Cas was buckling on his bed, writhing like a maniac. Dean was at his side in an instant.

"Cas, it's me, I'm right here." Dean touched Cas's hand gently. Cas's eyes opened and Dean exhaled in relief at the bright, blue that started back at him. Cas was still struggling and his hand went up to the tube.

"Hey, hey, no," Dean said, wrapping his hand around Cas's wrist. It was too easy to shove Cas's hand away. "Help!" Dean called.

Dr. Whitaker and two nurses slammed into the room, pulling a crash cart behind them, but they abandoned that once they saw what was happening. Dr. Whitaker was speaking to one of the nurses. She ran to the other side of the bed. The second nurse grabbed Dean by the shoulder and pulled him away from the bed, to the center of the room. Dean was in too much shock to fight.

"Hold on, Castiel," Dr. Whitaker said. "We're gonna get that out."

Dr. Whitaker poked and prodded and then the tube was coming out. It was long and snake-like. Cas gagged as it was slipped out and once it was out all the way, he coughed.

"That's good," Dr. Whitaker said. He pulled a penlight out of his pocket and shined it in Cas's eyes. "Pupils are responsive," he said, but Dean wasn't sure who it was to. "Mr. Wilson, do you know where you are?"

Cas just stared at him.

Dr. Whitaker put the penlight away. "Welcome back to the land of the living, Mr. Wilson."

Cas burst into tears.


	14. Chapter 14

_AN: to MCarreant: I'm so glad you're enjoying! I know you've binged read but here's another chapter for you!_

 _You guys didn't think this was gonna be easy, did you? :P_

 _-0-0-_

 _Is is easier to build strong children than to repair broken men_

 _-_ Fredrick Douglass

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The wind whipped at Sam's face. He shivered and reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out the feather. He swallowed and shared a nervous look with Jody. She just shrugged. Sam exhaled and fiddled with his lighter. The smell of holy oil stank in the air.

In front of Sam's feet was the bowl of ingredients. Sam dropped the feather into the bowl and began the Latin incantation. The incantation was long, the vowels stressful and the consonants awkward. Sam was out of practice, and he berated himself for getting so lazy with his spell languages. It felt like he was speaking in that foreign language forever, until he finally came to the end.

"Jack," Sam said, lips curling around the name.

The leaves on the trees rustled. The wind howled louder, whipping Sam's hair up against his cheeks. Jody bundled her arms tighter around herself. Their breath was visible before them.

Sam got his lighter ready, flicking it open. The moment he saw a flash of movement within the ring of holy oil, he dropped the lighter. The fire shot up instantly, but it radiated no heat.

"Holy shit," Jody said.

Sam recognized the eyes. Yellow, beady, yet there was something naïve within. Jack was tall and skinny and naked, goosebumps visible on his flesh. Jack rotated his head slowly, looking right to left until he stopped at Sam. Sam froze under the gaze. It made his skin itched.

"Hi, Jack," Sam said slowly. The eyes made him uncomfortable. They represented too much bad in his life, and all the bad within him. The demon blood that was still somewhere deep inside him. But he couldn't deny that these eyes were not like the eyes of Azazel or Ramiel. They were different. Sam reminded himself that Jack was still a child.

Jack visibly inhaled. "You're Sam Winchester," he said.

Sam gnawed on his lip. "Yeah," Sam answered. "How did you know that?"

"I saw you in his heart."

Sam was lost for words for what felt like a long time. Jody shifted behind him. "Castiel's, you mean?"

Jack looked around. "I think so."

"What do you mean you _think_ so?" Jody spoke up, voice sharp, cutting through the wind like butter. Sam wondered the same thing.

"The nice one," Jack said. "It was the nice one. Not the others."

"Dagon and Lucifer," Sam said.

"Lucifer," Jack said. He said the name slowly, like it was a word he had never heard before. "My father."

"Yeah," Sam said, swallowing. "Look, Jack, we don't want to hurt you."

Jack stared at the flames trapping him dubiously.

"I think you're good," Sam said, speaking to Jack like he was a wounded animal. "In your heart, you're good. You didn't mean to hurt the animals, right?"

"No."

"Good. And you haven't hurt any people."

"No."

"Right." Sam forced a smile. Jack spoke like a toddler. Sam wondered how well Jack grasped language. Did he even understand what Sam was saying? "Listen Jack. Castiel? He's my friend. My family, actually. And he's hurt. And so is my mom."

Jack's eyes widened. "Your mom is hurt?"

"I think so." It hurt Sam to say the words out loud. He had been trying very hard not to think about Mom, about what she might be going through in that other World. Not when there was nothing Sam could do. "See, she's in another World. When you were born, a rift opened between our World and a different one. My mom is trapped in that other World. But you can help us. You can make Castiel better and you can help me find my mom."

Jack was quiet for a moment. The flames crackled. Jody was breathing heavily behind Sam. Jack raised a hand and placed it over his chest, fingers biting into his skin. "My mom," he began slowly, looking down at Sam's feet, "she's not here."

"She's not," Sam said, trying to ignore the pang in his chest. "I'm sorry."

"She's not here because of me."

"No, no. It wasn't your fault."

Jack met Sam's eyes. "I can't help you."

Sam couldn't keep the confusion off his face. He glanced over his shoulder to Jody. Her mouth was a thin line. She shrugged, but her hand hovered over her holster, fingers twitching. Sam turned back to Jack robotically. "What?"

"I don't know how." Jack's voice trembled. "I don't know what I'm doing."

Chills ran down Sam's spine. Asmodeus's early words rang in his head. _Baby snakes are deadlier than their parents_.

"That's okay." Sam struggled to keep his voice calm. He needed to stay calm. If he panicked, Jack would panic, and a panicked Nephilim that couldn't yet control his world altering powers was not something Sam wanted to deal with. "We'll help you figure out how to use your powers. Cas can help you. If you can help Cas, make him better, he can help you."

"You don't understand," Jack yelled. The flames in front of him shot upwards several feet, whooshing louder than the wind. Jody bent forward, head over her knees, and Sam clamped his hands over his ears. Jack's face was flushed, panting heavily. The flames dwindled down back to where they had been before. Sam reluctantly pulled his hands away from his ears. "You don't understand," Jack repeated, quieter. "I don't know anything. I don't know how to heal."

Jody stepped forward slowly. She walked until she was right beside Sam. She grabbed onto Sam's elbow.

"What?" Sam said.

Jack looked at his hands. "Those animals. . . they were sick. I tried to help them and instead. . ." Jack clenched his hands. "I'm sorry. I can't help you."

Sam's mind was a maelstrom of emotions. Disappointment, anger, depression. He'd been counting on Jack for everything. To heal Cas, to bring back Mom. Jack had been his only hope. The only light at the end of this tunnel.

"That demon," Jack began, loud enough to capture Sam's attention, "he was right."

Sam shook his head. "Whatever he said, it was a lie."

"I know what I'm capable of, Sam Winchester," Jack snapped. "I could destroy you. Both of you. It would be easy. Just like those animals. Do you want to be like those animals?" Jack paused. "Asmodeus wants me to sit by his side on the throne of Hell. I may be young, but I'm not stupid."

"Of course not," Sam said, swallowing. Being Lucifer's son did have its perks. The sudden growth spurt had been unexpected, but the extraterrestrial intelligence was not. The longer Sam stood there conversing with Jack, the sharper the sting in his heart. Jack reminded him a lot of Cas: naïve, yet more intelligent than anyone would give him credit for.

"He doesn't want me as an ally," Jack continued. "He just wants me out of the way. Because I'm a threat to him, aren't I?"

"You're a threat to everyone," Sam answered. Lying would do no good. Jack would probably be able to tell right away anyway. Cas could. "If you wanted to be."

Jack was not evil. He was capable of being good. He wanted to be good. Sam could see it in his eyes. Jack chose Cas over Lucifer and Dagon for a reason. He'd said it himself, he'd seen into Cas's heart and saw something in there. Something good.

"I got away from him," Jack explained. "He wasn't as well-prepared as you." Jack eyed the fire. "Arrogant."

"Will you stay?" Sam asked cautiously. "I'll put it out if you promise not to fly away."

"What's a promise?"

Jody's grip tightened.

"A promise is when you say you're going to do something, and you do it."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Stay right there," Sam said. He unhooked Jody's hand from his elbow. He crossed the distance between him and the flames and kicked dirt over them. Once Sam covered up a small portion, the entire ring of fire extinguished, curls of smoke reaching up with thin, bony tendrils towards the sky.

"You're good," Sam said again. "I truly believe it." Jack could have decimated the entire World by now, if he were so inclined. The fact that he hadn't, the fact that Sam and Jody were still standing, in one piece, was testament to that. "It's not safe for you to be alone. Asmodeus is going to keep searching for you. He won't give up. We can keep you safe." Sam gestured to Jody.

Jack's eyebrows narrowed. "Why? I can't help you. I don't know how to get your mom back. Or how to heal Castiel."

"Because you don't deserve whatever Asmodeus has planned for you." Sam stuck out his hand, palm upward. "I know I'm asking a lot of you, but you have to trust me. I don't want to hurt you."

Jack stared at Sam's hand like it was a coiled snake. "Trust. That's like a promise, right? It means you'll do what you say."

"Yeah," Sam said.

"What will you do?"

"Take you somewhere safe. I don't quite know where that is yet," Sam admitted. Was the bunker safe? Its safety had been compromised several times over the last few years, from demons and men alike. Still, Sam couldn't think of anywhere else to take a being as juiced up as Jack, especially with a Prince of Hell searching for him like a predator. Sam's throat tightened. He realized that there was no way he could take Jack back to Washington. The drive was too long to risk it. And a place as public as a hospital was nowhere to take a baby god.

He would have to worry about it later. For now, the bunker.

Jack continued to stare at Sam dubiously. Sam gulped.

"We'll take you home."


	15. Chapter 15

_Sometimes being a friend means mastering the art of timing. There is a time for silence. A time to let go and allow people to hurl themselves into their own destiny. And a time to prepare to pick up the pieces when it's all over._

 _-Octavia Butler_

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

"Physically, he seems to be recovering fine." Dr. Whitaker's voice was quiet and rough, worn from a stressful day about to go into an even more stressful night. The lights were off, but moonlight shone in from the window, glowing across the tiled floor.

Dean was tired too. He felt like he had aged ten years in just a few hours. He looked around the new room. They had moved Cas out of the ICU, finally, and into the regular in-patient ward. It was a bit homier—as homely as a hospital could get. The window and nightstands gave it some semblance of an actual room instead of a sanitized box. Dean was just grateful that there wasn't a giant ventilator by the side of the bed.

"We're managing the pain," Dr. Whitaker continued. "But the wound is closing up nicely. A few more days and I think we can take the stitches out."

"And mentally?" It was a battle to get the words out. Dean glanced briefly over his shoulder. Cas was curled on his side, staring listlessly at his fingertips.

Dr. Whitaker sighed. "It's too early to tell. He's been through a trauma. He lost a lot of blood. He was comatose for many days. Mentally, I'd say he's still in shock."

Dr. Whitaker reached out and put a comforting hand on Dean's shoulder. His grip was warm and tight. "Give him time. He's already proved that he's a fighter. Just keep doing what you've been doing. Talk to him. Let him know that you're here. Family support is vital to recovery."

Dean resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Dr. Whitaker had been nice and supportive, had done more for Dean than he had to, but Dean still was annoyed by how contrite he was being. Family support yadda yadda, don't give up hope—it was the same speech regurgitated over and over. Dean had heard it before. They said the same thing about Dad, about Bobby, about Sam after the trials. In a few minutes, Dr. Whitaker would chew it up and spit it back out to another family.

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. He exhaled slowly, and willed his muscles to relax, tried to steer his mind towards the positives and not the negatives. Cas was awake. He was healing. That was what mattered most.

"I'll leave you alone now," Dr. Whitaker said. He left the room, the door clicking softly behind him. Dean fell into the chair next to the bed and rubbed his hands over his face, digging the pads of his fingers into his skin, groaning.

He rested his elbows on his knees.

"Hey, Cas," he said, and offered up a small smile, but there was no emotion behind it. Cas didn't look at him. Didn't even acknowledge that he'd heard Dean. He kept staring at his fingers, flexing them intermittently.

Dean sniffed. He rubbed at his nose. He focused on the rise and fall of Cas's chest—manual, biological now, instead of forced. It was a good thing.

"We're gonna take care of you," Dean said. "Me and Sam."

There was still the issue of Jack, having power capable of blowing the planet to pieces in his little finger. And Mom, lost in that other World, with Lucifer. She might not even be alive. She could be dead and Dean would never be able to know, not for sure. They'd never get to have a funeral.

Dean swallowed. His knees bounced up and down.

"You just focus on getting better." Dean licked his lips. He had to focus on the positives. The things he could fix. Sam had found Jack. Cas was awake. Things were getting better. They'd figure out the Mom thing. Mom was a hunter. Had been her whole life, and she jumped straight back into it without preamble. She'd be fine.

Dean had to believe that she'd be fine.

He hesitated for a moment, then found his courage. He reached over the metal bar of the bed and wrapped his hand around Cas's. It was strange, feeling Cas's skin under his own. Cas's skin was dirty. He was overdue for a nice shower. Dean would have to ask the nurses about that sometime soon, but he couldn't pull himself away from Cas's side. Cas was staring at their intertwined hands now. Dean rubbed his thumb over the back of Cas's hand.

.

.

.

"He hasn't said anything?"

"Not a word."

"But he's okay?"

"I guess. I don't know. He won't even look at me, Sam."

Sam was quiet for a moment. "Well, what are you going to do?"

"I don't know." When Dean admitted it, it felt like a failure. "They're gonna keep him a few more days, but after that I don't know. They really need him to talk." Dean sighed. He thought standing in the hallway would lower his blood pressure some, let him relax even minutely, but he was wrong. Being away from Cas was making his skin itch. "What about you? How's Jack?"

"Fine. Kind of quiet. Not evil."

"Well, I'll drink to that."

"Dean," Sam chastised. Dean rolled his eyes, even though Sam couldn't see it over the phone. Sam knew Dean well enough anyway that he could probably tell.

"Relax. I'm not drinking. I wish I was. I'd be passed out by now." Dean rubbed at the bridge of his nose. He could feel a cluster headache coming on, just a small hum at the front of his brain right now, but soon it would become a jackhammer against his neurons. He wondered if he could get a doctor to give him painkillers. If it was even worth the argument. He probably had some Vicodin stashed in the Impala somewhere.

"Okay," Sam said. "We're on our way to the bunker. Sorry, but there's really not anywhere else I can think to take Jack."

"No, you're right to do that. Especially if Moe's going to be trailing you guys somewhere somehow, the bunker's the safes place. Hell of a lot safer than here anyways."

"I know. I just wish I was there for Cas."

Dean stared through the small window in the door. He could not see Cas from this angle. "Honestly Sam, you're not missing much. It's like he's not even awake. He won't even look at me."

Sam sighed heavily. "Well, he's awake. That's something."

"I guess."

"It is. Don't discredit it. You woke him up."

Dean snorted.

"Seriously Dean." Sam paused. "You told me those dreams were his memories."

"I think they were. They seemed like memories."

"Well, he was in there all that time, and you woke him up. That's something to be proud of."

Dean disagreed, but he was too tired to argue further with Sam. Even though Cas was awake and out of the ICU, Dean still couldn't relax, couldn't unwind the ball of anxiety that hung low in his gut, that kept him up at night, able to feel his heartbeat in his temples.

"We're almost out of Indiana now," Sam said. Dean could hear the nervousness in Sam's voice. Dean wished he could do something to ease it. Right now, he was probably just adding to Sam's worry. Was probably the root cause of it all.

Not to mention the worry for Mom. When Sam had first called, Dean had been relieved. He finally had good news for his brother, after days of nothing, of no change: Cas was awake, he was on the mend, and Dean had been so excited to finally share something good with Sam. And Sam had admitted that they found Jack, that Jack hadn't tried to kill them, Jack didn't want to kill them—but Jack couldn't bring Mom back, couldn't heal Cas; didn't know how. Right now, Jack was a nuclear bomb, sat in the backseat of the car right behind Sam and Jody, capable of accidentally going off at any moment, and taking half the planet with him.

"That's good," Dean forced the words out. It would take Sam several hours to get to the bunker, even if he drove through the night. "Just keep him safe."

"You know, I bet Cas can help. Soon as he's back on his feet, I bet he can teach Jack how to open the portal."

Dean couldn't hold back the desperate chortle that tore its way out his throat. "You think so, huh?"

"I think it's our best chance." The honesty in Sam's voice was heavy. "Cas might be human now, but he still has all that angel knowledge, right?"

Dean swallowed. It went down his throat slow and thick, getting stuck halfway. "I don't know. I don't know if he remembers his name. He won't talk to anyone."

"Well, if there's anyone that can get through to him, it's you."

Dean jostled. "The hell do you mean?"

"Anytime Cas has been in trouble, or not himself, or I don't know, half comatose or catatonic, you're the one that snaps him out of it. It's that _profound bond_ , remember?"

Dean's face flushed, indignation burning through his blood. He stammered too long, unable to pull a cohesive retort before Sam spoke again:

"Dean, it's okay. I know."

"You know?"

"Yeah." Sam had the balls to sound petulant. "I've spent the last ten years of my life a witness to your gross eye sex. And I mean, come on. You gave him a _mixtape_."

Dean bit his lip. He resisted sticking his hand into his pocket to wrap his fingers around the tape, feel the hard plastic beneath his skin, ensure it was still there. He knew it was there. He _knew_ it was there. Yet something inside his brain still itched, a compulsion that screamed he had to check.

Dean curled his hand into a fist.

"It's good," Sam continued. "What you two have."

Dean snorted and looked up at the ceiling, tears burning in his eyes. "I don't think that's true." His voice was a whisper. "Knowing me has brought nothing but pain and Hell to him. I'm poison, Sam."

Sam was quiet for a moment. Dean's phone pinged with the low battery alert and he swallowed.

"He smiles now," Sam said.

"What?"

"Cas. He smiles now. Not often, I guess, but it's something, you know? He didn't used to smile, not at all, back when we first met him. I know it hasn't been all pansies and roses, but. . . But I think Cas is happy with us. Happier than he'd be back in Heaven. He loves you, Dean. Don't throw that away."

Sam was about to say something else. Dean could tell, from the way Sam's breath hitched, but whatever it was, it was lost as Dean's phone cut out, the battery depleting all the way. Dean pulled his phone away from his ear and stared at the dark screen, stomach coiling into a hot, tight knot.

Dean exhaled and went back into the room. He felt like a ghost, skirting on the edge, watching Cas just lie there on the bed, awake but no better than he'd been back in the coma.

Or maybe Cas was the ghost. Dean didn't know. What he did know, though, was that this was worse: Having Cas awake, but still out of grasp was worse than the comatose, diseased figure Dean had spent watching vigil over the last week.

Dean crossed the steps from the door to Cas's bedside and he sat down in the chair, all movements mechanical, as though he weren't in control of his own body. His bones creaked as he sat down, knees popping. Dean stayed there for a minute. Then, he got out, got as close to the bed as he could, and he sank to his knees. He took Cas's hand in his and squeezed it. He felt Cas's pulse under his fingertips.

"You're awake, but you're not," Dean said. "I need you to wake up. Fully. So I can tell you that thing. The important thing I couldn't tell you earlier because you weren't awake." Dean's throat narrowed. "C'mon, Cas. Give me something. Anything. Anything to let me know you're still in there, somewhere."

Dean waited, breath caught in his throat.

Nothing.

Cas wouldn't even look at him, eyes still downcast, at something Dean couldn't see. Cas's eyes were blue, that bright, brilliant blue that was magnetic and captivating, that Dean had needed to see since they were engulfed in that bright glow and closed and stayed closed.

"Cas, please. Please, man. Please."

"Dean?"

Dean looked up. Dr. Whitaker was in the doorway, charts in his hand, an expression on his face Dean couldn't clearly read. He cleared his throat.

"Dean, can I speak to you outside for a moment?"

Dean untangled his hand from Cas's and reluctantly left.

Dr. Whitaker opened the door and motioned for Dean to leave. Dean felt like a scolded child, in trouble with the teacher. Dr. Whitaker closed the door. He faced Dean.

"So," Dr. Whitaker said. He sighed and adjusted his glasses. "Castiel is your _brother_ , huh?"

Dean's heart dropped into his stomach.

"I don't care about your personal relationship with my patient. It is not my job to judge how you live your life. I do care that you lied about said relationship. I can have you barred from seeing him."

Dean's skin itched.

"You seem to be a nice man, Dean, but I can't help but question your intentions."

"Excuse me?"

"Castiel is my patient, first and foremost, and he is hurt and traumatized. We have not yet even begun to understand what his mental state is, but I can't have you. . ." He shook his head. Dean could see the anger simmering being his eyes. "He can't consent to anything."

"Excuse me?" Dean's voice was low, guttural, and for the first time he hated this man in front of him. "How dare you—what the hell kind of person do you think I am? That I would take advantage—"

"You lied to me. I bent rules for you. I need honesty, and you lied to me about your connection to my patient."

"So what? You're kicking me out?"

Dr. Whitaker stared intensely. "My duty is to the safety of my patient. I think you should leave for a little while."

Dean's eyes burned.

"Leave or I'll have security escort you out and then you will not be allowed back."

Dean's feet were frozen in place. His worst nightmare of these last days was coming true.

"Now, Dean."

Dean didn't have a choice. If this guy wanted to stop him from seeing Cas ever, ever again, he had the power and the law behind him.

Dean pushed past Dr. Whitaker and waited until he was in the elevator, on the way down, before he let the tears fall.

-0-0-

 _AN: Going out of town this weekend, so there might not be an update next week. Will try my best to have one, but I can't promise anything._


	16. Chapter 16

_AN: Finally got back into town late last night. Wanted to update on Thurs. but Dropbox wouldn't let me edit on my tablet for some reason. . . but here it is. Hope to get back to the grind now. With school starting will probably have to go back to the once a week schedule tho._

-0-0-

 _Children betrayed their parents by becoming their own people_

-Leslye Walton

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

When Mary was a child, her father began her hunter's training early. It was a stepping milestone for children in the community, a rite of passage. Where normal parents beamed over their child's first lost tooth, their first day of school, hunting parents beamed when their child could shoot straight. Normal parents helped their children study multiplication cards. Hunting parents helped their children identity different sorts of monsters from their tracks, and MOs.

She tried. She tried so hard to not raise her children the way she had been raised. She made a decision when she married John. She was going to be ideal American mother. The perfect wife. She and John bought a house and she decorated a nursery, planning the Christmases and birthdays to come, the sort of celebrations she never got.

But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't escape it. She would just be folding laundry and watching the news when a story would come on that was clearly a werewolf attack, not a bear mauling, and she couldn't just ignore it. Not when she could help people.

It was the only truth of hunting. Once in, there was no getting out.

Still, Mary never thought that one day, hunting would get her thrown into an entire different dimension.

The sun beat down hard on her back. Her neck was soaked with sweat and her shoulders were aching with the weight of the supplies. According to Bobby's watch, they had been walking for hours, but it felt like they had made no distance.

John had enjoyed a series of comics and movies called _Mad Max_. Mary thought it was because it reminded John of Vietnam. It was about a group of survivors lost in a post-Apocalypse World. Mary had rolled her eyes at it. It had been a corny sci-fi story, but they had made John happy and she didn't feel right taking away something harmless if it made her husband happy.

Now, Mary wished she had paid more attention to those movies. She was living in one now.

"You ready for a break?" Bobby asked. He was a few steps ahead of Mary, but he was panting, face flushed, sweat shining across his face.

"Can't," Mary panted. "Taking a break is just prolonging the journey. We need to get there fast."

"We got two hundred miles to cover, woman. It's gonna take us some time to get there, and we ain't ever going to get there if we die of exhaustion."

Mary paused and pressed her hand against her back, popping her spine. She clenched her teeth and hissed. "Do you need a break?" She forgot that it wasn't just her on the line. She needed Bobby's help to get to Stull Cemetery. He knew this World, and even more, he knew how to survive in this World. Bobby didn't have to come. He could have stayed back in the bunker, where it was safe, and he had enough rations stored to last him years probably, if he did it right.

Would Mary have even got this far without him?

"I could use a break," Bobby admitted quietly. Mary swallowed and nodded. If Bobby was willing to admit it, then he needed it badly.

"Okay," Mary said. She sighed, suddenly becoming hyperaware of her own pain. It wasn't just her shoulder anymore. It was soreness in her legs, the throbbing in her skull from her concussion, the twisting of hunger in her gut. Maybe she could use a break too. "Where can we rest?"

Bobby looked around then pointed east. Mary followed him. They walked several more yards until they came to another one of the strange pillars, coming up from the ground like a disfigured mountain. Mary winced as she came close to it, remembering when Lucifer had thrown her against a similar one. Bobby sat down and braced his back against the pillar.

"Just need a few minutes," Bobby said. "Then we'll get back on the road."

Mary sat down next to Bobby. She wiped her face with her sleeve, disgusted by the sweat and grime that soaked through.

"What're you going to say to this Gabriel guy? If we even find him?"

Mary shifted uncomfortably. "I'll ask him for his help."

"And you think he's going to just give it?"

Mary looked up to the sky. It had been quiet for a while. No signs of angels or demons anywhere. It was unnerving. Mary didn't like it. She rather there be fighting. At least that way she would know where the enemies were.

"I don't know," Mary said. She chewed on her lip. "You know, my son, Dean. You met him?"

"He the beansprout or the Rick Astley wannabe?"

Mary couldn't help it. She laughed, pure and genuine, for the first time in a long time. "He'd kill you if he heard you call him a Rick Astley wannabe. God." Mary wiped her eyes. "He managed to convince an angel to help him." She still couldn't think about Castiel without her heart burning. "It's in my genes. If Dean can do it, then I can do it."

"Not sure that's quite how that works," Bobby said.

"Shut your mouth," Mary said, but there was no heat behind it. She was too tired, too sore, too hot. Realistically, they probably only covered ten miles. She tried not to focus too much on the fact because it was disheartening to think of all the mileage they still had to cover and the dangers that stood between them and their destination. To search for an angel that may or may not be alive, and may or may not help them, and may or may not just kill both of them on the spot. Mary sighed.

"Well," Bobby said, "you better have enough hope for the both of us. I'm all out."

Mary rolled her bad shoulder. "Get some rest, Bobby."

Bobby grunted, but he reclined against the pillar and pulled his scarf over his eyes. Mary guarded, fingers hovering the entire time over her holster. It was very quiet for a long time, and then out of nowhere the sky filled with colors, bright flashes of red, orange, bright blue. Thunder clapped, shaking the ground. Mary flinched, breath catching in her throat, but nothing appeared and Bobby didn't budge. He must have been really tired to sleep through a literal Apocalypse.

Mary looked up at the sky.

.

.

.

"Who's Castiel?" Gabriel asked the strange Lucifer, the one in a different vessel, from a different World. Though he looked different and his grace was different—damaged in ways Gabriel couldn't quite decipher—he held himself the same as the Lucifer Gabriel knew: tall, proud, like nothing could knock him down.

"Hm?" the strange Lucifer said. "Oh. No one you need to concern yourself with. Someone from my World that I knew."

"Yeah? What happened to him?"

"Nothing less than what he deserved."

Gabriel's grace quivered at the tone in Lucifer's voice. It was bland, casual. Whoever Castiel was, Gabriel felt sorrow for him. He didn't know this Lucifer, but Gabriel imagined he wasn't much different than the Lucifer Gabriel did know. Castiel probably didn't deserve whatever this Lucifer had dealt him.

"Come on," the strange Lucifer said. He snapped his fingers. "We're on a timeclock, aren't we? If we want to get into Heaven and get those weapons, we need to do it ASAP. Before Mikey realizes there's two of me going around."

They left Hell. The two Lucifers, Gabriel, and Azazel were all stood back on Earth, full of the sand and gray skies, angels and demons clashing all around.

"Okay," Lucifer—the Lucifer from this World—spoke. "You two," he pointed to Gabriel and Azazel, "will work distraction. If you see Michael, lead him away from the vault. Me and Me will go to the vault and find the weapons."

"Hold on," the strange Lucifer said. "You want us to stick together? That's a bad idea. If we get caught, Mikey will just kill both of us. We should split up."

Lucifer snorted. "What? No, thanks. I'd rather have you where I can keep an eye on you."

Gabriel looked between the two Lucifers, both equally stubborn and angry, both equally capable of killing the other.

"What?" the strange Lucifer said. "You don't trust me?"

"Absolutely not," Lucifer said. He turned back to face Gabriel. "You got it, brother?"

"Keep Michael away. Keep everyone away."

"Good boy. Let's go." Lucifer reached out and grabbed onto the strange Lucifer's arm. He snapped his fingers and the two of them disappeared.

Gabriel, alone with Azazel, swallowed.

"Well," Azazel said. "This sure is an interesting day."

"Well, it is the end of time," Gabriel said. "Guess there's no room for boring these days." He missed the old days. He missed Kali. Candy. The days when his family wasn't trying to kill one another, when they could have a civil conversation.

"We better get going," Azazel said. His yellow eyes never ceased to make Gabriel nervous. Something about them was too other worldly, too strange. Made him out to be something different, because he wasn't an angel anymore, but he wasn't quite a demon, either. He and the other Princes were something different altogether. "Before the boss man realizes we're slacking. Don't want my ass to get thrown into the fryer."

"What does it matter?" Gabriel asked. "The World is ending."

"Doesn't mean we have to."

Gabriel looked up to the sky. He hadn't been in Heaven in centuries. Not since he first ran away. He was nervous to see what had become of his home. He had witnessed the destruction of Earth, a place he had come to adore, along with its inhabitants and their creations. Heaven could not have avoided a similar fate, right?

Waiting would not undo any of the damage done to his home, and would only raise Lucifer's ire, something Gabriel dare not risk.

"Okay," Gabriel said, exhaling. "Let's go."

Azazel winked and clicked his tongue.

.

.

.

Getting into Heaven was easy. Nothing had changed in that regard. Gabriel was an angel. Heaven was his home. All he had to do was will himself into the realm and he was there. Even Azazel had no trouble entering the domain. Prince of Hell or not, he was still an angel in his core being. There were no longer any gates, no guards, nothing that would indicate their arrival in Heaven with the chaos of war around them.

Gabriel took in the sight of his old home. It was painful. Sterile white walls filled with doors, arranged alphabetically, that contained each soul's individual Heaven. It was like a doctor's office and if Gabriel didn't know better, he wouldn't believe this to be Heaven. But the angels' side was always different from the human.

"We don't have much time," Gabriel said. "Someone's going to find us eventually."

"You worry too much."

"I just want to get this over with as quick as possible."

"Well, buddy, that's not up to us. That depends on quickly our two friends find the weaponry."

"This is stupid." Gabriel pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. "The weaponry's got to be one of the most guarded things in this place! If anything, we should be the ones trying to break in there while the two Lucifers lead Michael away."

"What? You're afraid of Michael?"

"Yes," Gabriel snapped. "I'm not stupid. You should be."

Azazel scoffed. "Whatever, man. Let's go find the big bro."

They walked wordlessly down the hallways, passing by the different doorways. If Gabriel put his hand on a door, he could see inside, sense the soul that lay within and the World they created: a child in a never ending day at the zoo, an old man was young again, able to dance with his wife once more. The entire Worlds they lived in were just fabrications, but somehow the souls were able to happy nonetheless.

Sometimes Gabriel wondered if it would be better. To be ignorant and happy. He didn't have that luxury as an angel, but still he couldn't help his mind from wandering.

"I know it's been a long time since I visited home," Gabriel said, "but shouldn't there be more angels around?"

"Well, who knows what this side of the war's running. They're probably too busy getting their asses kicked to be running security in this side. Especially Michael. You think he's gonna stick himself doing the grunt work?"

"Yeah," Gabriel agreed. "Guess that is more your pay grade anyway."

Gabriel ducked, narrowly avoiding the fist that came his way. Azazel's face was tight, mouth drawn into a thin, wiry grin, all anger, no humor.

"You're funny," Azazel said. "Heaven's got no room for funny."

"Don't I know it." Gabriel dusted his arms off. Azazel grinned, yellow eyes sickly and sinister, like a snake's.

They continued to walk down the hallway. Gabriel resisted the urge to peer into the various Heavens that surrounded him. It was so strange to him to see how different they were. It was so strange to see what was important to the different souls. Family, friends, for some, but for others their preferred Heaven was more materialistic. Some people's Heavens had them bathing in luxury. Gabriel was torn between the varieties. He loved his family, even when they didn't love each other, but he still loved the iniquities Earth had to offer: wine, sex, drugs, sugar.

He wished he didn't have to be here. He wished he could be with Kali, wherever she was, and that they could be living life like it was meant to be. Instead, he was once again dragged back into his family's politics and this time he didn't have the option to get out. The first time, he ended up having to fake his death to escape. He'd never be able to get away again, not until this was over.

Searching for Michael was like climbing into a bear's den. It was idiotic. Insane. In many ways, Michael was more terrifying than Lucifer. Before the Fall, before his family was ruined, Gabriel had been more afraid of Michael than Lucifer. Michael was always so no nonsense, always the killjoy. Lucifer at least knew how to have fun.

When Gabriel had been dragged back into this war, siding with Lucifer had seemed like the most reasonable choice. Michael was scarier, but no one could hold a grudge better than Lucifer.

It felt like they were walking forever, but Gabriel knew the moment Michael appeared behind them.

"Hey bro," Gabriel said before he turned around, forcing a smile.

Gabriel hadn't seen Michael in so long. He hadn't changed a bit.

"Gabriel." Michael's eyes slide to the side. "Azazel."

"Howdy," Azazel said.

"I must say, I'm surprised to see you both. Especially you, Gabriel."

"I don't want to fight you," Gabriel said. His fingers twitched at his sword nonetheless.

Michael sighed. "Then you shouldn't have come here. You're a traitor, both of you. You know there are orders to kill you on sight."

"And yet," Azazel said, "here we are, still alive."

Michael grinned, but it wasn't pleasant. It was dark, sinister, and cruel. There was no love in it. Just years and years of war, of soldierly duty forced to the front while brotherhood was shoved deep down, far away. Gabriel barely recognized the angel standing before him.

"What can I say?" Michael said, shrugging. "I like to play with my food before I eat it."

Gabriel looked at Azazel. Azazel was standing tall, still smirking, unaffected by the situation. Michael wasn't stupid—he was many things, but he was never stupid. He was much too calm about the entire situation. And if Heaven had been alerted to Gabriel's presence, it had to be alerted to Lucifer as well. Right? The only thing they had to their advantage was the strange Lucifer. Did Michael know about him as well?

"Look," Gabriel said, stalling. He wasn't sure how he'd know if the Lucifers succeeded in their mission of finding the Heavenly vault and stealing the weapons. "How about we call a ceasefire, huh? Just talk for a minute?"

Gabriel wasn't stupid, either. He knew that he was only supposed to stall Michael. The Lucifers were probably expecting him to die.

Gabriel had no plans for that.

Michael stared at Gabriel. "There's nothing to talk about, brother. You chose your side. Both of you."

"You've already destroyed Earth," Gabriel snapped. "Wasn't that your mission? You both got what you wanted! Everything else is just a pissing match."

"It's destiny. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you? How many times have you fled from yours?"

Gabriel shook his head. "There's no such thing as destiny. If there were, I never would have been able to leave, would I?"

Michael drew his sword. It clattered into his hand, light bouncing off the golden blade. Gabriel's own blade instinctively fell out as well. Gabriel took a step back. "Please, brother."

Azazel drew his sword as well and raised it high. Michael frowned.

"We're not brothers anymore."

He lunged towards Gabriel.


	17. Chapter 17

_A friend loveth at all times, but a brother is born for adversity_

-King Solomon

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Lucifer spent thousands of years in the Cage. Then, when Sam Winchester freed him, he spent a year on Earth, exploring everything the planet had to offer before he was forcefully shoved back in, this time with company, a surprise in the grand plan Father had planned since the beginning of time.

Lucifer spent more years in the Cage until another surprise came. Sam, Dean, and Castiel, busting into the Cage, asking for his help. Freeing him. He had taken control of Castiel's vessel and was again free. He explored Earth and Heaven.

Heaven had surprised him in how it was somehow both immensely different and exactly the same. The look of it had changed. The white, sterile walls had been a new addition that Lucifer was not used to. He figured it had something to do with Naomi or Zachariah—those two had always been a bunch of killjoys, and they also were high up enough on the food chain to orchestrate such a thing.

But though the look was different, the feel was the same. Dull, lifeless, dictatorship. There were the angels up top who ruled over all, and everyone else was just a mindless, drooling drone, happy to ask 'how high' whenever any shmuck barked jump.

This Heaven was no different. The Other Lucifer walked the hallways with pure confidence, not even checking for anyone that may be watching. Lucifer was not fearful of anyone that may cross their paths. He knew the two of them would easily be able to subdue any opponent. The only concern was Michael, but Gabriel and Azazel would be distracting him, hopefully long enough for Lucifer to find the vault.

"What do you think?" the Other Lucifer asked, looking over his shoulder. Lucifer smirked.

"Not much to think. This place is whiter than a Mariah Carey concert."

Other Lucifer's lips twitched. When he faced forward once more, away, Lucifer glared, fist forming, swallowing the urge to reach for his sword. He still needed this Lucifer for now. Soon enough, though.

They walked further and further without interruption, without anyone appearing.

"This is a trap, isn't it?" Lucifer asked.

"Probably," Other Lucifer answered. "This place is entirely barren."

The Vault was just around the corner. Lucifer knew the door from heart. He could feel the power radiating out towards him already, the weapons calling his name, desired to be used as they were designed. It was pitiful they had been locked away and neglected for so long. Lucifer would have to remedy that right away.

But surely the Vault would be guarded? Surely some poor lower-tier angel drew the short straw?

Something wasn't right.

They turned the corner and Lucifer was relieved to see another angel.

"Hi, Raphael," he said, grinning.

The Other Lucifer drew his sword. Raphael stared between the two of them for a long second before he schooled his face into the expressionless mask he always wore.

Raphael's sword fell into his hands, light bouncing off the metal, shimmering. "Let's make this quick," Raphael said. "You can surrender now or I'll kill the both of you and put your heads on a stake."

"Not likely," the Other Lucifer said. "There are two of us and one of you."

Raphael tilted his head and grinned, his wings rising high above his head, feathers sparkling like diamonds in the sun.

Little brothers were the worst. Always so cocky, so immature. Raphael said nothing. He lunged at them, sword clashing against the Other Lucifer's so hard, sparks flew. Lucifer bent down, his own sword falling into his hands and prepared a sneak attack, but Raphael kicked him right in the face. Hot blood ran down his face. Bits of grace burned as it tried to stitch together skin. Raphael and the Other Lucifer danced around each other, blades slicing the air. Lucifer tried again to sneak up on Raphael, but Raphael spun on his heels, his sword clashing against Lucifer's. Lucifer gritted his teeth. Their metals grinded together harshly, the tension high.

The Other Lucifer ran forward, sword high, but Raphael heard him, spun on his heels. Lucifer attempted to skewer his sword through Raphael, but Raphael threw his elbow back, catching Lucifer's already injured nose. His word caught Lucifer in the shoulder. Lucifer bit his tongue to swallow the pain. The Other Lucifer wasn't faring much better. Each blow he attempted, Raphael blocked and countered. Raphael was fast and skilled, and Lucifer realized he may have underestimated this pesky little brother.

Everyone's wings were out, flapping, swinging like an extra set of arms. Their wings were weapons just as their swords, but Lucifer couldn't get close enough to do any good with them. Raphael had always been swift. One of the fastest angels in Heaven. It came in handy when he was supposed to be a healer—he could get to the injured ally quicker than anyone else. As an ally, Raphael's speed was a great asset. As an enemy, it was a hindrance. Even his counterpart was having difficulty fighting.

Lucifer's face flushed, feathers twitching. It was impossible to get a sneak attack. Raphael seemed to know their moves before they even thought of them.

"Two of you, eh?" Raphael said, punching the Other Lucifer with his wing. The Other Lucifer slide several yards, blood streaking across the porcelain floor. "Sure you don't need a third you?"

Lucifer gritted his teeth. The Other Lucifer wasn't moving, still on the floor. Raphael turned and stalked towards Lucifer, sword swinging slightly from his hand. Lucifer raised his sword high, swallowing. He wasn't going down without a fight. He wasn't going down to a stupid, pathetic little brother, not again. He took down Castiel, that stubborn, spineless, sorry excuse of anything, yet God still spared some ounce of pity. He could take down Raphael.

"I don't know what World you're from," Raphael said. "I don't know how you got here. I don't care. But getting to kill you twice will be the greatest luxury of my life."

Lucifer took a step back, sword still high. Raphael raised his own, held it in the position to strike-

Then a blue light blinded Lucifer. The light was hot, bright—there was a loud whine. Lucifer closed his eyes for a second. He heard a loud thump and felt a gust of wind.

When he opened his eyes, the Other Lucifer was standing, slightly slouched, sword barely held between his fingers. The blade was shrouded in blood, from tip all the way down to the hilt. Raphael was face down on the ground, wing prints burned into the ground.

The Other Lucifer exhaled and grinned. "You should always let them monologue," he said, straightening. "When they get comfortable enough to monologue, they get distracted."

The Other Lucifer looked at the door. "Let's go."

Lucifer stared at Raphael's corpse and felt nothing. He turned to the door and entered.

The Vault was full of all sorts of weapons, blessed by God and prophets: Cain's club, Salt of Lot, Staff of Aaron and Moses, Joseph's coat, a piece of the Ark. Those were just a few of the many that were meticulously organized in the room. Lucifer saw Gabriel's Horn hung up on one wall and he smirked, fingers twitching, desiring to reach out and take it.

"Well," the Other Lucifer said. "One of these is bound to take you back to your World."

"Yes," Lucifer hummed. His eyes bounced from one weapon to another. He could feel the power in this room. It radiated in the air, buzzing, tickling his skin. The power in this room was more than he could have imagined. He could rule Earth with this kind of power.

There was nothing in this Earth for him to rule. But back in his World, Earth still spun. Life still thrived. That was an Earth he could rule.

"Well, go on. Don't just stand there. Take your pickings before Michael comes this way." The Other Lucifer began to take weapons off the wall. Lucifer walked to the opposite side of the room and did the same. Moses's Staff was nearly lightless in his hands, but he could feel the power woven into the wood. His Father's power. Lucifer gripped it tightly, grinning. He took Aaron's Staff also, holding the two in one hand, and he rested them over his shoulder.

"Faster," the Other Lucifer complained. "Someone's coming."

Lucifer felt it as well. A foreign grace was nearby, and getting nearer by the second. With all these weapons though, he wasn't afraid. Michael stood no chance against them now.

Lucifer turned back to the door just in time to see Gabriel coming into view. Gabriel stared at Raphael's body, shock plastered into his face.

"Oh, it's just you," the Other Lucifer said.

"Sorry to disappoint you," Gabriel said, stepping into the Vault. The walls were barren now, weapons held in hands of the Lucifers.

"How'd you get away from Michael?"

"A true magician never reveals his tricks," Gabriel said. His eyes were locked onto the Horn in Lucifer's hands.

"You want this?" Lucifer asked.

"Azazel's dead, thanks for asking."

Lucifer shrugged. The Other Lucifer did the same. Azazel was an ally, nothing more.

"All is fair in love and war, yadda yadda yadda," the Other Lucifer said.

"Yeah, well, you might want to get out of here quick. Mikey's on his way."

Lucifer smiled and shared at look with his counterpart. In a blink of an eye, they were back on Earth, the Heavenly weapons in their hands. Gabriel was just a few feet away.

Lucifer tossed Gabriel his horn. Gabriel caught it with one hand. Lucifer had no use for the thing. It was worthless for his needs. It forced listeners to tell the truth. Lucifer was not a liar and he didn't care enough about anyone else to be bothered if they told the truth or not.

"So," Lucifer turned to his counterpart. "I'd love to get back to my World ASAP, really, I would. But there's a little birdie that fell into this one with me I'd need to find and bring back with me."

"Well, how hard can it be to find one pesky human?" Gabriel asked. He kept looking down at his Horn with bitter nostalgia.

"With your help, not hard at all," Lucifer said with a sly grin.

.

.

.

Michael had always been a soldier and nothing else. It was an asset as much as a downfall. Michael had been so focused on Azazel that he underestimated Gabriel and paid him no attention. Gabriel had managed to sneak away and find the two Lucifers without any problem.

But Michael would find them eventually. And he'd be pissed, with Raphael dead and the Vault completely looted. Gabriel had his Horn back, something he hadn't seen since he first abandoned Heaven, and it was bittersweet to hold it in his hands. It was a reminder of the life he used to have. The family he used to have. The destiny he used to have.

"She'll be easy to find," his Lucifer said. "Not many humans around these days. Those that are still alive stand out. Besides, she can't have gotten far anyway. Not in this World. There's famine and disease and everything Dad planned for the end of times."

"Look," the strange Lucifer snapped. "Trust me. It's not a good idea to underestimate these hairless apes. They're scrappier than you'd give them credit for."

His Lucifer scoffed. "Just 'cause you got your backside handed to you by a bunch of mud monkeys does not mean I will. We're not the same."

"Didn't say we were," the strange Lucifer said. His lips turned downward in disgust. "I'm just telling you the facts. I thought the same as you once. This woman isn't just any person. She's of the type like cockroaches."

"Well," Lucifer said, "I've killed my fair share of those too."

The two Lucifers glared at one another and Gabriel contemplated flying far, far away.


	18. Chapter 18

_My family is my strength and my weakness._

-Aishwarya Rai Bachchan

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Five more days passed. Five days of cold, suffocating hospital air, the burning stench of antiseptic lodged in every breath. Cas still silent. Barely cognizant. Things were tense between Dean and Dr. Whitaker. The man let Dean back into Cas's room after their confrontation, but Dean could tell he was only doing it begrudgingly. According to him, Cas became anxious whenever Dean left the room. After learning that tidbit of information, it was a challenge for Dean to ever leave Cas's side, even if it was just to go to the bathroom or cafeteria.

On the fifth day, Dr. Whitaker pulled out of Cas's room. Cas looked at Dean with wide, terrified eyes. Dean reluctantly untangled their hands. Cas made a keening sound. Dean ran his fingers through Cas's hair.

"I'll be right back," he said, as soothing as possible. "I'm just gonna be right outside the door."

Dean exited with Dr. Whitaker. "What?" he snapped. "What's so important that you couldn't tell me in there?"

Dean got anxiety away from Cas as well. His skin itched.

Dr. Whitaker flashed several pamphlets. Dean took them and leafed through.

"Your insurance should cover these," Dr. Whitaker said.

Dean barely scanned over the pieces of paper, but his heart froze in his chest, throat swelling. "These are care homes."

"It's been five days, Dean. He hasn't shown any sign mental awareness. He needs specialized care."

"I can take care of him," Dean whispered. He looked at the doctor, a whirlwind of emotions going through his mind. He wanted to punch Dr. Whitaker for even suggesting such a thing.

"His needs are going to be beyond your ability."

"You don't know that."

"Dean, you have to think of what's best for Castiel."

"I'm what's best for Castiel." Dean almost didn't believe the words that had come out of his own mouth. For so long, he thought the opposite. Despite what Castiel may have thought, knowing the Winchesters had brought nothing but pain to the angel. Cas had been happy, once upon a time, before Dean snagged his fingers into him and pulled Cas down with him. Knowing Dean had brought Cas pain, disownment, anguish—all sorts of things that couldn't be nursed away with a beer and some stitches.

But Dean knew that he didn't trust Cas with anyone else but him and Sam. Cas was different. He was special. Doctors wouldn't get it. The photoshopped people on the pamphlets wouldn't get it.

"You say that now," Dr. Whitaker said in what sounded like a rehearsed speech. "But think about it. He can't express his needs. He's in pain. We haven't even begun physical therapy yet—a wound like that is still going to take time to recover. Caring for him is going to be a 24/7 job and not everyone can come up to the task. There's no shame in admitting it. There's no shame in leaving it up to the professionals."

Dean shoved the brochures back into Dr. Whitaker's chest. "No thanks, doc," he said, barely able to contain his anger. He was seething. His ears were flushed up to the tips, teeth aching. "I can take of him."

The desire to get Cas out of here and back home had never been stronger. He thought Dr. Whitaker had been different, but Dean was realizing the truth in sick horror. Dr. Whitaker was just like the other people that stared at Cas and whispered to their friends, pointing, sometimes snickering. Cas was different and strange, Dean knew that. But Cas was his family, and Cas was so many things they would never understand. If Dr. Whitaker was going to be like those people, those people that pointed and stared, Dean wanted Cas out of this place.

Dr. Whitaker sighed, but took the brochures back. "Dean, if you would just listen to me—"

"No," Dean snapped. "No. I am not—I'm not abandoning him. I'm not dumping him in some care home to just rot away and die."

"It's not abandonment. It's doing what's best for him."

"And that's what's best for him, huh?"

"Yes. He needs care that you just simply can't give him."

"Like what?"

Dr. Whitaker rolled his eyes. "Around the clock care. He's going to need help eating, bathing, going to the bathroom. He's conscious, but still unresponsive, leaving us with no way to evaluate his mental state. I won't authorize a discharge until we got some idea of what that is like."

Dean had thought this guy was on their side. He had been thankful for the work Dr. Whitaker had done. Dr. Whitaker had saved Cas's life and now—now—

"That's not your call to make," Dean whispered. "I know my rights."

"Ah yes. You mean your Power of Attorney rights? Yes, well, normally you'd be right. I can't make you do anything, or keep him here against your will. However, you lied to me about your relationship with my patient."

Dean fought to keep his face impassive.

"You said you were his brother, but your actions since have proved to be a bit more. . . romantic than that. I have patient that cannot advocate for himself and no reason to believe that you are not a threat to his wellbeing—"

"How dare you—"

Dr. Whitaker held up a hand. "Quiet. I've brought my concerns to the Board. I told them I have concerns about my patient's safety under your care. Now they are going to review this case and make a decision, but until then, all medical decisions will go through me. Including discharge."

Dean tasted bile at the back of his throat.

"And what happens at this Board review?" he asked quietly.

"Well, they are going to make a decision. Either they grant you back your Power of Attorney rights, or they revoke them completely and Castiel's care falls directly under me."

"And that would mean sending him to a psych ward?"

"If my evaluation leads me to believe that it's in his best interest, then yes."

Dr. Whitaker wrinkled the brochures in his hand. "Good day, Dean." He turned and walked away.

Dean stood in the hallway for several minutes, blood racing through his body, fear causing his heart to pound against his ribcage.

Could Dr. Whitaker even do that? Dean had watched enough medical dramas to know the basics of medical law, but that stuff was all fictionalized anyway. Could he trust it?

Dean pulled out his cell phone and dialed Sam's number.

.

.

.

After getting Jack into the car, Sam drove them first to a Target. He waited in the car with Jack as it idled in the parking lot while Jody ran inside to get Jack some clothes. That was their first priority. Jody came back in less than twenty minutes, but they had been a long twenty minutes, with Sam stuck in the car with a wordless Jack.

Sam tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. He fiddled with the radio. He was aware of Jack's eyes on him the entire time. If Jack wanted to hurt him, he would have done it already, but Sam was still on edge.

Jody came back with three shopping bags full of jeans and graphic t-shirts. Sam drove while Jack tried to get dressed in the backseat. He put the shirt on inside out, but neither Sam nor Jody commented on it. They had a long drive back to the bunker and Sam had too much on his mind: Asmodeus, Dean and Cas, Mom.

"So, Jack," Jody attempted to make conversation. "What—what do you know?"

"About?"

"Well, anything."

Jack was quiet for a moment. He stared out the window and watched the scenery fly by. "I am the offspring of a human woman and the archangel Lucifer. I am the first of my kind, a Nephilim sired by an archangel. I am on the planet called Earth, third from the star called the Sun. You are Sam Winchester, brother of Dean Winchester, vessels of Lucifer and Michael."

Jack paused. He touched the glass, mesmerized by the fog outside the window.

"Well," Jody said slowly, "sounds like you got the basics down."

"I am very powerful," Jack said. "Asmodeus wants me. You want me."

"For different reasons," Sam interjected quickly. They weren't like Asmodeus. They weren't.

"I can't help you," Jack said. "I'm sorry. Your mother. Castiel. I can't help them."

"That's okay," Sam said, struggling to keep his voice even. "We just—"

Sam couldn't finish the sentence. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Jack was supposed to be able to help them. Jack was the answer to their problems. The Cas problem. The Mary problem.

"We want to keep you safe," Sam finished. "We're going to take you somewhere safe."

The engine of the car and the soft rumble of the radio filled the silence. It was going to be a really long drive back to the bunker.

Sometime later, after Jody and Sam switched places, Dean called. Sam hesitated answering at first because he would have to explain picking up Jack. It was what he and Dean agreed on, but still, he didn't want to deal with Dean's older brother bullshit.

But ignoring the call would just piss Dean off. Sam answered.

"Yeah?"

Dean had news. Cas was awake.

"Really?" Sam couldn't hold back his excitement. Oh, god. Finally. Finally, they had a win. "Dean, that's fantastic! Is he okay? Can I talk to him?"

Sam was met with silence. "Dean?"

"It's not that simple, Sam."

Cas was awake, but he wasn't talking. Dean said Cas had sort of a break down after he woke up and the doctors took the ventilator off, but he wasn't talking to anybody.

Sam swallowed, trying to kill the disappointment that weighed in his gut. "He's awake, though. That's something."

"Yeah."

"We found Jack." Sam winced as he spoke the words. He waited for Dean's reaction.

"Okay." Sam could Dean was holding back. Sam explained everything he could.

"We're headed back to the bunker now."

"Yeah. That's a good idea."

More silence. They said their goodbyes awkwardly and then Sam hung up and looked in the rearview mirror at Jack.

"Castiel is better?" he asked.

"Better than he was," Sam answered. He was aware of Jody looking at him out of the corner of his eyes. "I guess."

"That's good," Jody said.

"I like Castiel," Jack said. Sam did a double take, stared at Jack over the back of the seat.

"You don't even know him," Sam whispered, swallowing. Despite his appearance, Jack was just a kid. Really only a few days old. And it wasn't Jack's fault he was what he was. Still, Sam had trouble letting go of the fact that Jack was the reason for their current circumstances. Jack had done _something_ to Cas, made Cas go off on his own with Kelly.

If Cas had stayed with them. . .

Sam couldn't pull his eyes away. Jack looked at him sadly. He curled his fingers into his shirt, right above his chest.

"I saw into his heart," Jack explained. "And it was. . . different. It was warm and bright. Nothing like the other heart. The bad one."

"Dagon's," Sam said. It was still a struggle to speak.

"She was mean to my mother. Castiel took care of her. She liked Castiel."

Sam's eyes started to burn again. Jody was staring at him again.

"You okay, kiddo?" she asked.

"Fine," Sam snapped, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. "Just keep driving."

.

.

.

Sam was used to long car rides. They made up more than half his life. Cross country road trips with Dad and Dean, back and forth across the country. He and Dean knew the American Interstate system better than anyone. A twenty-hour drive across four states was easy, if not boring.

This trip though seemed to be the longest trip of Sam's life. Between Jody's concerned stares and Jack's curious ones, and the phones calls to Dean, and the worrying about Asmodeus finding them, Sam's blood pressure was through the roof.

When they made it to the bunker, it was two in the morning, and Sam was so stressed out, he was fighting against crying.

"This is it," Sam said, opening Jack's door. "This is home."

Jack's eyes scanned the entire area. "There's powerful magic here."

"Most powerful horde of magic in all of North America," Sam said, slamming the door. He fiddled with his phone, desperate to call Dean. Dean was a man of action. He would know what to do in this situation. Sam didn't think he could stand just sitting here in the bunker, while Dean and Cas were halfway across the country, and Mom was in another World, probably dead.

Jody followed cautiously behind. Sam entered the bunker first. He flipped the lights on and stepped down the spiral, metal staircase. His footsteps echoed in the openness.

They had cleaned up the mess left over from the Men of Letters. Sam spent hours on his knees, scrubbing the concrete with bleach. It still smelled of bleach, potent enough that Sam's nose burned. For the last four years, this had been their home. A lifetime of living in the Impala and seedy motels, he finally had a home. He'd been more reluctant than Dean to call this place home at the beginning. For the longest time, he thought of it as more than an office than a home. He wasn't sure when that line of thinking stopped.

But right now, it didn't feel much like a home. For a moment, he was thrown back into that federal prison. Concrete walls all around. This was almost his grave.

No Dean. No Cas. No Mom.

Sam took a shaky breath.

Jack and Jody came in behind him. Jody put her hand on Sam's shoulder and looked at him sympathically. Jack turned in a circle, neck craned by, looking at everything.

"It'll be okay," Jody said.

Jack ran his fingertips along the tabletop, fingernails tracing the carvings of the initials Sam and Dean made weeks ago. Bile burned at the back of Sam's throat as he realized Cas never got to put his in.

"This place," Jack said, turning again. He walked to the bookshelves and traced the spines with his fingertips. Then he moved, fast as lightning, all the way across and touched the different memorabilia scattered about. Swords, telescopes, decanters. "Your essence is everywhere."

"Look, Jack. It's been a long drive. Jody and I need our sleep." Sam wanted just a few hours, a few hours, of nothingness. He wanted everything to stop and cease to be for only a few hours. "Do you sleep?"

"I can sleep. I don't have to."

"Well, it might be a good idea for you to sleep. Jody and I need a good, long rest and—" _and I don't trust you enough to leave you alone_ — "You'll get bored." Sam didn't have a problem putting Jody in Mom's room. For years, Jody had pretty much been his mother figure. But the idea of stuffing Jack into either Dean or Cas's room. . .

"You sleep," Jody said. She patted Sam's back firmly, but gently. "I'll babysit."

"No, Jody, you need to sleep too. You've been driving for hours—"

"I'm on a second wind. Besides, my blood is still fifty percent coffee." She smiled. "Go, Sam."

Sam opened his mouth to argue, and then prompt closed it. He sighed. "Thanks, Jody."

"Sweet dreams, Sam."

Sam turned to Jack. "You hurt her, I'll kill you."

Jack blinked, but nodded.

.

.

.

Sam slept. He didn't dream. He suspected he was too tired to dream, but he was grateful.

He woke to the sound of the fryer popping and the smell of food. He woke up feeling hungover and disgusting, even though he hadn't touched a drop of alcohol in weeks, despite the shitstorm these last few weeks had been. He popped his back and walked down the hall to the kitchen. Jody was standing at the stove, making eggs. Jack was sat at the table, staring at his hands.

"Morning, Sam," Jody said without looking his direction. "Food'll be ready in a sec."

"You didn't have to do this, Jody," Sam said, but his stomach grumbled. He'd been living on fast food for days. The stench of a homecooked meal was getting to him.

"Shut up and eat." Jody scrapped the eggs onto a plate and carried them over to Sam. "Sit." She had an authority in her voice Sam couldn't ignore. He sat down in the little booth, across from Jack. Jack had a plate in front of him, and he was pushing his eggs back and forth.

"I need to call Dean," Sam said, putting the first bite of eggs into his mouth. His hunger doubled as soon as he swallowed that first bite, and he was shoveling them in like a starved man. "Should've done it last night, actually." Dean would have a fit but Sam could handle it.

"Just rest for a few minutes," Jody said. She pushed on Sam's shoulder and Sam slide into the booth to make room for her.

"You're not eating?"

"Don't talk with your mouth full," Jody snapped, slapping Sam on the elbow. "I already ate."

"Jody ate eggs and toast," Jack said. He scrapped his fork against the plate.

"Jack and I have been getting to know one another," Jody explained. Jack nodded.

"Jody is very nice. She has a pink soul."

"Hear that, Jody? A pink soul." Sam couldn't help the little smirk.

"Don't think I won't smack you again."

Sam finished his eggs in record time. Jody let him out of the booth and he went for his phone.

Like expected, Dean was pissed Sam didn't call the minute they made it home. Sam let Dean rant for minutes until he got a word in and asked about Cas. Cas still wasn't talking. Sam tried to hide his worry and discouragement.

They talked for a little bit, trying to encourage the other, but even Sam knew it wasn't really working. He hung up the phone and did what he always did when he needed to escape the World: research.

.

.

.

Sam poured through book after book. All the different books they had on angels, the few books on nephilims. He ordered some of Stephen Hawkings' books off Amazon and tried to research alternate realities.

Jody helped too, and during all that, Sam somehow found himself teaching Jack. It started with something that made sense. Three people could get through all the books faster than two. Sam slammed down one of Hawkings' book in front of Jack.

"That's an A," Sam explained, pointing at the letter. "It makes an _ah_ sound." Sam went through the entire alphabet. By the end of the day, Jack was reading fluently and getting through the books at an inhuman rate.

Sam stared at Jack as his went through book after book, at speeds twice what Sam could manage. Sam was reminded of Cas, and his heart hurt. Cas could read wickedly fast. Sam watched him sometimes. Cas seemed to be able to just stare at a page and see the entire contents at once. He didn't have to examine piece by piece and put them together like a human.

The three of them worked their way through the bunker's library. Nothing seemed important and Sam went to bed feeling more discouraged than when he woke up.

He and Jody took shifts sleeping. Jack was never alone. In a bunker filled with ancient magic and medieval weapons, Sam was hesitant to even turn his back on Jack.

Days passed with nothing from Asmodeus and nothing from the angels. Days passed and Jack didn't attempt to hurt them. Sam still couldn't let his guard down though.

One morning, Jack set the toaster on fire. Sam was in the kitchen making breakfast. Jack was just a few feet away, staring at everything, and then suddenly the kitchen was filled with smoke and the toaster was on fire. Sam put it out fast, and thankfully there was no damage to anything else. But it did nothing to lessen Sam's worry about Jack's abilities. Jack may not want to hurt them, but that didn't mean he wouldn't. He could kill them on accident as easy as he destroyed the toaster.

It was days later when he got a call from Dean. Sam stared at it in worry for a bit before he answered. He'd already spoken to Dean today. If he was calling again, something had to have happened.

"What is it?" he answered.

"Sam," Dean's voice croaked. Sam knew his brother better than anyone on Earth. Dean was on the verge of tears. "Sam, I need some lawyer advice."

Sam stood up and walked away, ignoring Jody's concerned glance and Jack's curious one. "What did you do?"

"Shut up. Just shut up and listen. Can a doctor take him away?"

"Cas?"

"He's not talking. They wanna throw him in an institution, Sam! And the doc says he can do it without my consent if he gets my power of attorney taken away. Which he's trying to do. Can he do that?"

"Is Cas stable?"

Dean huffed. "Yeah."

"Get him out of there."

Dean was quiet for a long moment. "What?"

"Get him out of there ASAP," Sam growled. He pressed his temple. "If a doctor gets you labelled as mentally incompetent, yeah, he can have your power of attorney waived. That's a very bad thing."

"I figured."

"You need to find a way to get Cas out of there today."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously." Sam had to fight to keep himself in control. He was the level headed one. If he panicked, Dean would panic, and that was the last thing they needed right now. Sam had been worried about Cas, but he never believed it would get this bad. Sam bit his fingernail.

"Okay," Dean said. "I guess we'll see you soon then."

Dean hung up. Sam listened to the dial tone for a few seconds. Then his concentration was broken as the book Jack was holding burst into flames.


	19. Chapter 19

_AN: Thank you Guest reviewer who notified me of the error in the original upload. I apologize and hopefully it will work this time._

 _And to those of you in the path of Hurricane Irma, my thoughts and prayers are with you. I know it doesn't mean much right now, but the SPN Family will be with you every step of the way. They were for me during Harvey._

-0-0-

 _Sometimes, to do the right thing, you have to break a law_

-Edward Snowden

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Dean hung up the phone and bit his lip. He clenched his hand around the phone, heart hammering against his chest.

He trusted Sam. If Sam said Cas needed to get out, then Dean needed to get Cas out. Now.

But how? The nurse's desk was right outside Cas's room. Dean looked up to the ceiling and could see at least two security cameras from his position. He was sure there were more around corners, and especially in the elevators.

Then he worried. Could he even get Cas out? Was Cas well enough to travel?

It didn't matter, Dean supposed. Cas needed to get out of here, before he was taken to a mental hospital.

Dean and Sam had broken out of hospitals before but they hadn't been as bad off as Cas was right now.

Then Dean remembered. Lisa. Lisa worked here. She was a nurse. She was here somewhere and she could help them.

Dean took off in search of her.

.

.

.

He found her in the ICU unit, at the front desk, working on charts.

"Dean? What are you doing here? I thought your friend was moved off this floor."

"He was," Dean said, panting. His face was flushed from panic. "Lisa, listen, I need your help."

Lisa stared at him, pinching her eyebrows together. "Dean, what's wrong?"

"I need to get him out of here. Like now. Dr. Whitaker wants to have him committed and, and I can't let that happen. Please."

Lisa looked at him, with her gentle eyes, and Dean felt she was staring right inside him. He swallowed, uncomfortable, feeling vulnerable under his gaze. But he needed her help.

"Dean," she said, closing the folder in front of her. "I don't think that's a good idea. If Dr. Whitaker is suggesting against discharge—"

"I can take care of him. I can take better care of him than anyone in here."

"Better than doctors?"

Dean swallowed and held her gaze. "Yes."

Lisa gnawed on her lip. Dean could see the doubt in her eyes. He wondered if there was a security button under the counters and if she was about to press it, have him thrown out, thrown away from Cas forever.

"Okay," she said.

Dean did a double take. He blinked. "Okay?"

"Okay," Lisa said, coming around the counter. "I'll help you. But if you breathe a word of this to anybody—"

"No, no. Of course not." Dean's voice was breathy, words coming out in short gasps and he was able to force them. "I swear. My lips are sealed."

Lisa's mouth drew into a thin line.

"Okay. Let's go. Let's get this done quickly."

"Lisa, thank you. Thank you—"

Lisa held up a hand and frowned. "Don't thank me till you're out of here."

.

.

.

Dean waited in Cas's room, nervous, hair on edge.

"We're gonna get out of here," he said to Cas. Cas blinked at him. Physically, he did look better. There was more color in his face. But Dean couldn't quell any of the worry that lay low in his stomach. Cas wasn't talking. He was awake, but he wasn't talking, and though he was physically improving, this being wasn't much better than the comatose figure Dean stared at for days on end.

Lisa came in with a wheelchair and a blanket. She wheeled it all the way up to the edge of the bed and fiddled with the side railing, forcing it down.

"Okay. There's a maintenance elevator all the way down the hall, tucked in a small corner. Take that to the bottom floor and follow the signs to get to the parking lot." She helped Cas sit up, gentle, but firm in her movements, grabbing onto his shoulders. She quickly took the IV out. She pulled out a wad of gauze from her pocket and motioned to Dean. "Hold that there."

Dean did. Lisa walked around the other side of the bed. "I unhook him from these monitors, they're going to go off at the nurse's station. I'm going to attach them to me. It'll keep the machines going, keep suspicion away so you guys can get away."

"Lisa." Dean couldn't say anything more.

Lisa undid the heart monitor off Cas's finger and wrapped it around her own.

"I can give you guys about a thirty minute head start. So get in your car and get out of town."

Dean swallowed. Lisa looked at him seriously. He sighed and then grabbed underneath Cas's shoulders. He lifted Cas off the bed and into the wheelchair, snagging the blanket and tossing it over Cas as well.

"Go," Lisa said.

"Thank you."

Lisa smiled at him. Dean pushed the chair. He paused by the door and looked out the little window, checking that the coast was clear. When he was sure it was, he opened the door and began to push Cas the direction Lisa gave him. His nerves were fried the entire time, but his adrenaline kept him moving fast. He kept his face as impassive as he could. One lesson he learned young from hunting: if you looked like you knew what you're doing, or that you were supposed to be somewhere, people assumed you did and were.

He found the maintenance elevator easily and got in.

"Okay," Dean said, exhaling. "We're gonna go home now, Cas. Doesn't that sound good?"

The ride down seemed to last forever. Dean was aware of each second that ticked by, each second of that head start Lisa was giving them lost, wasted. When the doors finally opened, Dean's heart had slammed a tattoo against his ribcage. He wheeled Cas out and began making his way to the parking lot. He did his best to avoid eye contact with anyone who past by, doctors and patients alike. No one seemed to pay him any attention, but Dean knew he couldn't ever be too careful.

When he got out into the parking lot, the sun was high in the sky. Dean's eyes had to adjust to the brightness. He thought Washington was supposed to be constantly cloudy.

He ran out towards the parking lot. The Impala was parked near the very back because for some reason hospitals never seemed to have enough parking.

"Here we are," Dean said, panting. His muscles were tight, chest heaving with exertion and anxiety. Dean wheeled Cas up to the backseat and opened the door.

"Here you go. You can lay down right here. How's that sound?"

Dean grabbed Cas under his armpits. He hoisted Cas into the Impala, trying to be as careful as possible, but he was pretty graceless. Cas was nearly his size—heavy and tall. Dean got him resting on the edge of the seats and then pushed him back inside.

"You just lay down, okay? Lay down and rest." Dean closed the door and left the wheelchair there in the parking lot, out of the way of the car. He got into the driver's seat and fumbled in his pocket for his keys. It took him two tries to find the right key. The Impala's engine never seemed louder.

Dean checked the rearview and adjusted it so that he had a good view of Cas. Cas was laying down, knees curled up to his chest, facing away from Dean. Dean swallowed and put the car in gear.

"Hang on, bud."

.

.

.

By the time Dean's thirty minutes were up, he was out of the town, and headed southeast back home. Every few moments he would glance up in the rearview mirror and check on Cas. He couldn't see Cas's face, but he could see the subtle rise and fall of Cas's side, and that was enough for Dean in that moment.

By the time he had been driving for two hours, he started to relax marginally. He wondered if they had noticed he left yet. He hoped Lisa wouldn't get in trouble for helping them.

After four hours of driving, Cas began to wheeze. Dean listened to it for another fifteen minutes before it became unbearable and he pulled over. He needed gas anyway, he told himself. He pulled into a grimy, no name fuel station and started gassing up, and then he checked on Cas.

"You doing okay?"

Cas's face was flushed. Dean put his hand to Cas's forehead. Cas was warm, eyes glazey with signs of fever.

"How 'bout we get you changed? I got you some new clothes the other day."

Dean pulled the Walmart bag out of the trunk. He grabbed a pair of underwear, sweatpants and a t-shirt. He helped Cas get into a sitting position.

In any other circumstance, Dean would be weirded out by all of this. Touching Cas like this. Helping him in this way.

But Cas was sick and hurting and he was family. Everything else didn't seem to matter. He helped put Cas's feet through the holes of the boxers and sweatpants and then pulled them all the way up. After that, he helped Cas out of the flimsy hospital gown.

Dean hesitated when he saw the bandage that went down Cas's chest. Underneath that, there was a red wound, still puffy with stitches that Dean would have to check on later. Dean bit his lip and helped Cas put on the t-shirt. Something soft and cool.

"There," Dean said, forcing a smile. "You look better already."

Cas stared at him, unfocused.

The gas pump clicked, indicating it was done. Dean waited for another few moments. "I got something else for you. If you want it." Dean pulled out the black trench coat and he forced it into Cas's lap. Cas pinched the fabric between his fingers and stared at it. He picked at an inside seam.

Dean cleared his throat. "You want to put it on?"

Cas nodded. Dean sighed in relief. It wasn't much, but it was something. Some kind of communication. Dean took the coat away and helped slide Cas's arms through the sleeves.

It looked good. Cas looked good. He was pale, his hair was greasy, he had purple-like bruises underneath his eyes, but he looked good. Closer to the Cas Dean knew.

"Good as new," Dean said. Then he forced himself away, and closed the door. He put the gas pump back and got into the driver's seat. They had a long drive ahead of them still and every minute was crucial. There was no time to be wasted.


	20. Chapter 20

_Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up."_

 _-Neil Gaiman, The Kindly Ones_

CHAPTER TWENTY

Dean drove for three more hours before Cas's wheezing started up again. They were in Idaho, just another hour or so from the Wyoming border. Still nearly fifteen hours away from home.

Dean bit his lip. He only had to contemplate it for a few seconds. He took the next exit that appeared, and ten minutes later he was pulling into of a Red Roof Inn. Dean took out his duffel bag and then got Cas out of the car. He wished he'd brought that wheelchair with him. Cas leaned nearly all his weight onto Dean. Dean threw his duffel over his shoulder. He wrapped one arm around Cas's shoulders, reaching down to grip at his waist. His other arm went down the same way.

"We'll take it slow, okay?" Dean said. He was already panting with exertion. "Let's go." Cas walked clumsily, almost tripping several times. Dean was there to catch him. Just getting in from the parking lot to the lobby was an exercise. Dean managed it, though. He had to.

The clerk stared at them as they entered through the door, and then the entire way to the desk. Dean wondered what she must be thinking.

"You got any doubles? Preferably on the ground floor."

She stared at them for a long time. "Sorry," she said eventually. "All sold out."

Dean felt like he'd been slapped. "Uh, your vacancy sign was on."

"My mistake."

Dean could feel his blood pressure rise. A cluster headache pounded behind his ears. He was too tired for this shit. "Ma'am, please. It's—it's not like that." Even if it was, it wasn't any of her goddamned business. She was just like Dr. Whitaker—making assumptions. Cas moaned and put his head on Dean's shoulder. Dean could feel the fever through all his clothing. Shit.

"Look," Dean said. "He's sick."

"Then take him to a hospital."

"We just need a place for a day or two. I'll pay in cash."

"I don't want your money."

"Damn it!" Dean snapped. Cas flinched, but then resumed his position. The woman blinked in surprise.

"Please," Dean said, voice dropping. "He's my best friend. He's sick. If you're gonna be like that, then just me a single. A bed for him. That's all I need. I'll sleep on the ground if I have to, but he needs a bed."

"No funny business?"

Dean bit his lip. "No funny business."

She shifted, seemingly pleased with herself. Dean swallowed his pride. If letting one homophobe win meant getting Cas somewhere safe, that was the price he had to pay.

She slid a piece of paper across the desk towards him. "These are what we offer for singles."

Dean looked at the list. "You got any of those left?"

.

.

.

The room was on the other side of the building. Dean didn't know if he should be thankful or not. He was further away from that bitch, but it was just more distance Cas had to travel.

They were both covered in sweat by the time they made it. Dean fiddled with the key and then kicked the door open. The room was about the same as all motel rooms were. Not ideal, but it would do. Dean wouldn't spent any longer than necessary in here anyway.

"Almost there," Dean said, helping Cas inside. He slammed the door behind him and then walked Cas to the bed. "There we go." Dean rested Cas down onto the bed slowly. The mattress shifted under Cas's weight, bouncing. The water inside it sloshed.

It was pretty seventies, but Dean figured it would at least be cleaner than a normal motel bed. And soothing.

"Oh," Cas said, eyes closed. "That's nice."

Dean stared at him for a moment. His throat was tight. For a moment, he forgot how to speak. "Cas?"

Cas opened his eyes slowly. They focused right on Dean. "Hello, Dean."

It felt like someone had punched him straight in the chest, and they were squeezing his heart. Dean's eyes burned. "Hey." Dean dropped to his knees and scooted to the edge of the bed. Cas bobbed up and down on it. Dean reached forward, trying to keep calm. He needed to keep calm for Cas. "How're you feeling?"

"Tired," Cas mumbled.

"Yeah. That's okay. You can rest up. You hurting?"

Cas was quiet. "A little."

"Okay." Dean doubted Cas's definition of "a little." The fact that Cas admitted he was in pain at all was a testament to how much he must be hurting. "Where?"

"Everywhere."

"Okay. I can get you some medicine. It'll help. What about food? You hungry?" Dean was only now realizing that he was starving. He'd been too pumped up on adrenaline too notice earlier. Hopefully there was some place that would deliver.

Cas's face pinched and he reached a hand to his stomach. He shook his head. "No."

"You nauseous? You know, you might be nauseous 'cause you're hungry. Humans are weird like that sometimes."

Cas looked at Dean like he'd grown a second head. Dean couldn't help but chuckle, even though there was no humor in it. "Yeah, I know. Human body is full of mysteries. Look, I'll get you something light. Soup or something. It'll be easy on your stomach." Dean didn't give Cas the option to say anything more. He stood up and looked at the desk for the take-out menus. There was something that advertised itself to be a home style diner. Dean perused the options. He took out his cell phone and ordered a bowl of chicken soup for Cas and a burger for himself. It was amazing the things you could get delivered now days.

Then he began making the room safe. He pulled out the canister of salt from the bottom of the duffel bag and the can of spray paint. He spread the salt over the window sills and threshold, aware of Cas's eyes boring into him the entire time. Then he began to spray wardings all over the room. He wouldn't be getting his security deposit back, but he didn't care about vandalizing the place, not when it belonged to such a pleasant woman.

Dean put up all the wardings he could think of. He warded against demons, angels, spirits. He put up wardings meant to call on good luck and cleanse the spirit. Dean worked until he had decorated the entire place and his hand ached. Dean threw the empty can onto the ground and then finally turned back to face Cas. His eyes were closed.

"Cas? You sleeping?"

Cas shook his head. Dean sighed and put his hand against Cas's forehead. It was hot.

"Shit," Dean muttered. "Okay, Cas. We gotta get you out of that coat."

"I'm cold."

"That's the fever. Your insides are hotter than the air outside. But your insides are too hot. We need to cool you off a bit, okay?"

Cas was quiet for a bit. "Okay."

"Good." Dean helped Cas out of the coat and he folded it neatly, placing it on the foot of the bed. The bed moved constantly, consistently, in a rocking motion that Dean hoped was comforting.

"Food'll be here in just a bit. You'll feel better once you eat a bit."

Unable to stand the silence any longer, Dean turned the television on, volume enough not to disturb Cas. It ran the usual stories. Local traffic and weather. Feel good stories. Crime.

Nothing about Asmodeus or giant, vaginal shaped rifts to other Worlds being opened randomly. Dean flipped through the channels. The motel only had twelve channels, and only three of them had good enough signal to not look like pure static. Dean ended up watching the kid's channel again. It was the same show that had been on that night in the ER. The one about the different animals that were like superheroes.

Dean didn't know how long he watched that stupid show. He wasn't paying that much attention. He kept looking back to Cas every few moments, making sure he still looked okay, until there was a knock on the door. Dean still checked the peephole to make sure it was the delivery person. It was a scrawny, teenage kid with pimples. Dean undid the deadbolt and opened the door slowly, only about halfway. He was careful of the salt line.

Thankfully, the teenager wasn't that observant. He handed Dean the bag of food, Dean gave him his tip, and then they parted ways. It went better than Dean could had expected. He secured the door again and took out the food.

He took the bowl of chicken soup to Cas.

"Sit up," he said, helping Cas get into position. "There you go."

"Thank you," Cas said quietly. Dean grunted and went to start his burger. But as stared at it, he found his appetite dwindling. He stomach lurched. He looked up at Cas, eating the soup tentatively. Dean wasn't sure how long he stared. Long enough to make Cas uncomfortable. Cas looked at Dean out of the corner of his eye, spoon just barely away from his face.

"Dean?"

Dean put the bag of his food on the table and walked back to the edge of the bed. His throat tightened.

"Nothing," Dean said. He was a coward. He had a plan. A plan of what he would say to Cas. When. How. First, it was when Cas woke up. Then, it was when Cas was talking again. Now, Dean wasn't sure when. He wanted to. He knew he needed to. He had the entire script planned in his head, had been mulling over it for days now, all while he sat by Cas's hospital bed, watching a machine push air into Cas's lungs.

Now didn't seem like a good time, either. Cas had just started talking. And he was sick. And barely eating. It wasn't right.

 _When will be right_?

Cas's face was grower more and more flushed. Dean rushed to him.

"Okay," Dean said, trying to keep his own panic in check. "Fever's still going up. Let's get you out of this shirt." Dean took the bowl of soup away from Cas and put it to the side. "Up." Cas put his arms up and Dean grabbed the hem, pulling the shirt up and off in one swift movement. Normally Dean would've suggested taking a cool shower, but he wasn't sure if this was a good idea in this scenario. Cas still had a fuckton of stitches and Dean still needed to look at them. In the meantime, he didn't want to risk getting them wet.

But there was the white bandage right in front of his face. Cas shifted a little and Dean caught sight of a second on Cas's back. That one was wider and longer. Logically, this made sense. The blade had gone all the way through Cas's chest, up to the hilt. Unlike bullet wounds, in stabbings this severe, entrance wounds were larger than exit.

Still, Dean felt sick looking at it. His blood pressure began to rise. Bile burned at the back of his throat. Cas was staring at him. Cas was staring at Dean staring at Cas.

Dean reached out slowly and brushed his fingertips down the chest bandage. It started just below Cas's throat and went all the way down his sternum. Cas flinched slightly.

"Shit," Dean muttered. "I forgot to get your those pain meds, didn't I?"

"It's okay," Cas said.

"It's not." Dean stood up and went back to his duffel. He pulled out the bottle of Extra Strength Tylenol and took out two pills.

"There you go," Dean said, dumping them into Cas's hand. "Let me get you some water." The bathroom was gross like all motel bathrooms were. Dean filled up a plastic cup of tap water and brought it over to Cas. He watched Cas take the pills one by one.

"Good," Dean said. He gave Cas the bowl of soup back. "Eat some more."

"What about you?"

"Hm?"

"You should eat. Your food's going to go bad."

"Yeah." Dean cleared his throat. "Okay."

He sat down at the table and pulled out his burger. It had gone cold during the time Dean had spent puttering around. He pulled it apart and ate it by its pieces—bun, bits of bacon, patty. He imagined it would taste wonderful if it were warm, but Dean was still too anxious to mull over it. He chewed meticulously, unable to keep his eyes off Cas for more than a few moments. Cas sipped his soup, eating the broth, but being picky with the noodles and chunks of meat.

Dean ended up only eating half the burger. He balled up the leftovers and threw them into the trash. He moved back to Cas. The bowl was sitting in his lap, but Cas wasn't interacting it with anymore.

"You done?"

Cas coughed, then nodded. Dean took the bowl and put the plastic lid on top. "I'll keep it, in case you want more later." He put it in the mini fridge.

Cas's gaze bore into him from behind. Dean inhaled before he turned around. He crawled onto the space left in the bed, instantly sinking down before he was just bouncing on the small waves.

"Come here," Dean whispered. Cas moved slowly, inching over into the invited space. He pressed up against Dean's side. Dean flinched at first, surprised by the heat coming off Cas. He relaxed though and wrapped his arm around Cas's side.

They laid like that for a while. Dean stared up at the popcorn ceiling, finding shapes in the spots, along with the water stains. Cas's breath brushed against Dean's neck.

"I thought you were dead," he whispered, voice rough. Just thinking about it made his eyes watery and the words hard to find. "For a moment, a long moment, I thought you were dead."

Cas traced a finger across Dean's clavicle.

"There was this bright light and you just fell over. You weren't moving. I thought you were dead."

Hot tears raced down Dean's face. His lips tasted like salt.

"I couldn't think of anything else except, 'Cas is dead' and nothing else mattered. I couldn't—" Dean licked his lips and focused on the ceiling. Cas's fingers kept moving across his clavicle. "But you weren't dead. You were—you were breathing. You were alive. Then the only thing I could think was, I had to keep you alive."

Dean sighed. Cas's fingers stopped. Dean closed his eyes tight and looked all the way deep down inside him. He looked for the courage. The same courage that stood up to two pissed off archangels. The same courage that had been prepared to die to stop Amara from destroying the World. The same courage that looked his Mom in the eye and said everything she needed to hear.

"You're my best friend," he said, swallowing. "And I. . . I don't want to live in a World without you. You've changed my life for the better. Even when we're fighting, it's not because. . . you worry me, all the time. You and your stupid 'Gotta do everything on my own' mentality. I meant it. You, me, and Sam. That's how it's supposed to be." Dean took a slow shaky breath.

"I love you," he said, tears slipping out past his eyelids.

Cas was silent for several, long, painful seconds. "Dean." There was an entire Universe in the way he said Dean's name. Dean peeled his eyes open slowly, shocked to see tears brimming in Cas's eyes. Cas brought his hand up and placed it on Dean's cheek. It was feverish, but solid, and Dean was glad it was there. Dean brought his own hand up and covered Cas's.

"Do you mean that?" Cas asked.

"All of it."

Dean found more courage. He leaned forward and gently pressed his lips against Cas's. Cas's lips were dry and hot, his stubble rough and overgrown. It was the most chaste kiss Dean had ever had. Possibly the least sexy thing he had ever participated in.

Yet, Dean knew it was the best kiss he had ever had. There was no heat in it, no sexual immediacy. It was just Cas. Cas, alive, right beside him. The waterbed bounced as Dean moved, rocking them together. Dean broke the kiss, breath shivering in his lungs. Cas exhaled, breath hitting Dean's skin.

Cas touched his lips briefly and then looked at Dean. Cas inched closer and then he was pressing his lips to Dean's, mimicking what Dean had done early. Chaste, sweet—but there was so much emotion within, nearly ten years' worth of unspoken words in that kiss.

Cas shifted, trying to get closer to Dean; then, the kiss suddenly ended and Cas groaned in pain.

"Cas?"

Cas curled inwards, arm covering his chest.

"Shit," Dean said, sitting up. "You okay?"

Cas nodded against the bed. "Yeah," he said through gritted teeth. "I'm okay." Cas gasped for a little bit, and Dean sat there not knowing what to do, guilt swelling in his stomach at the sight. Cas was still hurt. He should be in a hospital, not a dirty motel room.

But, they were together here. That was the most important thing. Anything else, they could handle. Dean could take care of Cas.

"Just," Cas said, swallowing. His voice was still incredibly hoarse. Dean had to strain to hear him. "Pulled at it."

"Did any stitches pop?" Dean gently moved Cas's hand away and looked at the bandage. He couldn't see any blood leaking through. Softly, he put the back of his hand over the bandage, trying to feel for bleeding. Dean sighed in relief. "Don't think so. You let me know if the pain doesn't get better in a few minutes."

Cas sighed and attempted to sit up.

"What are you doing? Lay down, man."

"Where's Sam? Mary? Kelly?"

Dean opened his mouth and then closed it. Cas was looking at him with wide, wounded eyes and Dean didn't know how tell Cas the truth.

But Cas deserved to know.

"You see. . ."

He told the tale as fast as he could. He didn't want to extend it. That would just extend his own misery as well. When he finished, he forced himself to look at Cas. Cas's eyes were watery with tears he was clearly fighting against.

"I'm sorry about Kelly," Dean said, putting a hand on Cas's shoulder. "I know she was your friend."

A few tears slipped out Cas's eyes. "She's in Heaven," he said slowly. "I know that. So." Cas inhaled deeply. "We'll find your mother."

Dean couldn't help it. He scoffed. "If she's even alive."

"She is."

"Yeah? What makes you so sure?"

"She's a Winchester. You Winchesters are stubborn and resilient and you never back down. You're a hard lot to get rid of."

Dean had to smile at that. He nudged Cas gently with his elbow. "You too, you know. You're a Winchester too." Dean remembered. "Oh, yeah. I have something of yours." He reached into his pants' pocket and pulled out the tape. It was a little dirty and dinged up from being carried around, but it was still in one piece. Dean handed it to Cas.

"Thank you," Cas whispered, looking at the tape like it was a holy relic. He handled it carefully and then gently put it on the nightstand.

"We should probably get to bed," Dean said. "It's a long drive back home and you're sick."

His fever was getting worse. Dean could feel the heat radiating off Cas from where he was sitting. He kept his worry schooled, though. He hoped Cas wouldn't be able to pick up on it.

"Get some sleep and you'll be feel better in no time," Dean whispered, helping Cas lay down. He kept the blanket low, just covering Cas's legs, hoping that would somehow ease the fever. Then Dean lay down beside him, despite there being little room. They were nearly shoved up against each other, rocking on the bed.

Dean leaned forward and kissed Cas again. "'Night," he whispered.

"Goodnight, Dean."


	21. Chapter 21

_"_ _Yet, like a god, I did descend_

 _At last to meet her love;_

 _And like a god I then withdrew,_

 _To my own Heaven above"_

-Charlotte Bronte, "Gilbert."

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Dean woke hours later, uncomfortably hot. He licked his lips and opened his eyes. He and Cas were pressed together, feet tangled. The air conditioning was working, obnoxiously loud and clunky. Dean shouldn't be this hot. It was only two in the morning.

It took a few seconds for his brain to come out of sleep and realize that the heat was coming from Cas. Cas was in a fitful sleep, flushed. Dean put his hand to Cas's forehead and grimaced. Cas's fever was getting worse. Dean didn't have a thermometer. He couldn't get an exact temperature. But it didn't take much for fevers to do serious damage. 104 degrees was considered in the danger zone, and by 106 the brain could start to cook itself.

Dean shifted out of bed, the mattress bouncing as he moved. He searched for his shoes and slipped them on.

"Dean?" Cas's voice was barely audible. When Dean turned to face him, Cas's eyes weren't even open.

"Hey," Dean whispered. "Sit tight. I'm going to get some ice. It'll bring your fever down. You'll feel better."

Cas opened his eyes. It was clear the movement was a struggle for him. His eyes were glassy. Dark, purple bags rested under his eyes. There was a shine them.

"Shit," Dean said. "I know that look." Dean lunged for the wastebasket just as Cas leaned over the edge of the bed. Dean just barely got it underneath him before Cas started vomiting. Dean watched helplessly as Cas vomited all the dinner he had. It lasted for over a minute, until Cas was dry heaving painfully, muscles spasming. Cas spit into the basket several times and then he was gasping.

"You done?"

Cas nodded.

"Okay," Dean said, putting the wastebasket to the side. "I'm gonna get ice and I'll stop by the vending machine and get you some Sprite. Worked miracles for Sam when he was younger and would get sick."

Cas didn't say anything. He turned to face the other way, looking absolutely miserable.

Dean looked around the room briefly. It was covered in all sorts of sigils. The threshold and window sills were thoroughly salted. It was as safe as Dean could make it. Still, he was nervous about leaving Cas alone, as sick as he was. Dean resolved to finish his mission as fast as possible. He grabbed his wallet and the ice bucket and left, before the courage left him.

Luckily, the vending machine was right next to the ice machine. Dean figured it was probably the luckiest thing that had ever happened to him. He bought the soda first and then filled the ice bucket. He tucked them both under his arms and headed back to the room.

He froze when he saw someone waiting by the door, trying to get a peek into the window.

"Hey!" Dean snapped, then realized he didn't have his gun. He stilled, wondering how he could have made such a stupid mistake. But then Dean got closer and he could see the person.

"Hi, Dean," Chuck said. "How've you been?"

Dean was speechless. He stood there and lost track of time as he took Chuck in. He looked no different than when Dean saw him last, nearly a year ago now. The corners of his lips were turned upwards, but the smile didn't reach his eyes.

Chuck sighed and looked up at the sky. "Nice night, isn't it?"

"What are you doing here?" Dean growled. His voice was low, bordering on animalistic.

Chuck looked at Dean out of the corner of his eye. "What? You thought you'd seen the last of me?"

"Well, given your track record. . ." Dean shared a sardonic grin. It didn't last. It melted off his face within nanoseconds and then he was scowling, trembling with the rage that was coursing through his blood. Dean looked to the door. Cas was right behind there.

"Fair enough," Chuck said.

"What are you doing here _now_?" Dean snapped. "Do you know what we've been through this past year? Just these last few weeks? Do you care? I prayed to you."

Chuck shifted on his feet. He looked back up to the sky. "I know."

Dean snorted.

"Look." Chuck turned to face Dean. He had one hand in his jacket pocket. "This is what you fought for, Dean. This is free will. If I came down and waved my magic wand every time you didn't like the consequences, well, that wouldn't be free will, would it?"

"Lucifer's kid is a time bomb waiting to explode, my mom is trapped in another reality with Lucifer, and Cas—" Dean's throat swelled.

Chuck sighed and looked down at his feet. Dean wondered how the hell God managed to look so small.

"Yeah. That's what I'm here about actually."

Dean raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

"I want to talk to Castiel."

Dean paused. He licked his lips. Looked back and forth between Chuck and the door. Why the hell was God asking him permission to speak to Cas? He was God.

It dawned on Dean. "You can't go in."

Chuck looked at the door. "Your sigil work has dramatically improved."

"There's a sigil that can block you?"

"Not me, per se. You have one that blocks Heavenly power. Guess I fit that criteria. I need you to go in and destroy it."

Dean didn't have to think about it. "No."

Chuck's eyes widened. "No?"

"You're not getting near him."

Chuck laughed. He rubbed his mouth and stepped forward. When he met Dean's eyes again, suddenly he didn't seem so small. Dean towered over him, but the way Chuck looked at him, the gleam in his eyes, made Dean's skin itch.

"I'm not, am I?"

"Well," Dean said, taking a step back. His bravado was gone in an instant, like a flame in a hurricane. "You can't get in. Not unless I undo that sigil. Which I'm not. So. Yeah. You're not getting near him."

Chuck clicked his tongue. He shook his head and muttered under his breath. "Man. And I thought Jonah was bad."

"Excuse me?"

"You're lucky I like you, Dean. You got spunk. Can't say that about many people. Still, you could be a bit more amiable, you know? Jonah ran and ran and ran, but eventually he came to his senses. Realized I can't be outrun, no matter how far he went. Why can't you?"

Chuck took another step forward. "Let me speak to my son."

Dean had told the devil to fuck off and die. He figured telling the same to God wasn't any different.

Dean had never believed in God. Not since his Mom died. He grew up watching evil crawl the Earth and kill good, innocent people, and since there wasn't a God to defeat it, it was up to him, and Dad, and Sam. And he'd been okay with it. Shitty things happened to good people, but that was just the way it was, and it sucked, but it was tough shit.

Then he found out that angels existed. And there was a God. But the angels and God, they were dicks. God was real and He didn't give a shit about any of them. He was perfectly fine letting the World get obliterated while He sat on His ass in Cancun sipping daiquiris, and learning that was worse than if God didn't exist at all. He, Sam, and Cas—Cas especially—they all groveled, prayed, tried to talk to this dick, tried to get an answer to their questions and again and again and again they were met with nothing but silence. God was real, but it was like He wasn't.

And after years of silence He just showed up out of the blue, out of nowhere, proclaiming this time, He was going to help.

And then He played Dr. Phil with Lucifer for like, five minutes, almost died, and fucked off again, without even leaving a forwarding address.

"You had your chance," Dean said. God tried to make amends with Lucifer, but He didn't say jackshit to Cas. "You've had, like, a dozen chances. You could've talked to him at any time, but you didn't. You've been hiding for who knows how long, and when you do finally show your ugly mug, you don't talk to him. Not him. You were more concerned with trying to kiss ass to Lucifer, so no, I'm not letting you in that room, you're not getting near him. You've already broken his damn heart enough times, and I am not going to let you do it again. I'm not going to be a part of it, letting you in."

Chuck was silent, jaw tightening.

But Dean couldn't hold back. Years of pent up frustration, and the dam broke, all spilling out and he couldn't stop it, couldn't reign it in, didn't care who it was he was speaking to. "All these people, all over the World, all throughout time—they pray to you, build monuments, fight wars in your name—and you don't give a shit about any of them. And Cas—you know, when shit was going down, he was the only one who still believed in you. He looked all over Earth and probably the Universe, who knows where else, and you were just hiding under his nose the entire time. You stood by and watched Raphael blow him to pieces. You stood by while he was fighting another Apocalypse and you never helped when he asked, when he begged. If you really wanted to talk to him, you could've at any time. Nothing was ever stopping you any of those times."

"And this time?" Chuck asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Me. Now."

Chuck chewed on his lip and huffed. He looked over his shoulder, at the door that separated Him from Cas. "That day when you and Castiel showed up in my house—that wasn't supposed to happen. I'd written the story. I knew how it would play out. You would be kept away from Sam long enough for him to kill Lilith. Lucifer would rise, the Apocalypse would begin. You and Sam would say yes, and the battle would go on as I had written since the beginning."

Chuck sighed and stuffed his hands into his jean pockets.

"And then. . . and then you and Castiel showed up in that dingy, little house. You remember what Castiel said then? 'We're making it up as we go.' And I was—I was surprised. Because that wasn't how the story was supposed to go. And yet. . . so yes. I stood by and watched Castiel die, because that was what he chose. He knew the consequences of his actions. But I helped you and Sam. I put you on that plane and thought, 'let's see where this goes.' What can Is say? It's not that often I'm surprised.

"And I was surprised again. You and Sam came into my house, blasted Zachariah and the others away, and you said something that still. . ."

"I learned that from my friend, Cas," Dean whispered, throat tightening.

"'My friend," Chuck said. "It had been a long time since angels had interacted with humans. It wasn't the first time in history, but it was the first time I had ever heard a human call one of my angels their friend. So, I brought Castiel back, took a step back, and decided to see how the rest would play out.

"Castiel. . . Castiel's always been different. He's a good fighter. A good soldier. But he's never exactly. . . ticked right. He never really followed orders, not completely. You know kids; you give an inch, they take a mile. I mean, he stopped Abraham from killing Isaac. Refused to kill the first borns of Egypt. But, you know what happened after those. Naomi did her thing, and in between those rare instances, Castiel was a good soldier." Chuck paused, licked his lips, hardened his eyes. "When he rescued you from Hell, he took to the task with the greatest amount of pride. I don't know what happened, but I know it happened in Hell. When he touched your soul—something changed."

Dean swallowed, feeling the burning scrutiny wafting from Chuck.

"When did you realize you loved him?"

Dean felt like he'd been punched in the gut. He inhaled sharply. He had to think about it. He could still feel Cas's lips against his own, and in that moment, wanted nothing more than to be back in the room, curled up against Cas, kissing softly and gently.

When did he realize he loved Cas? Cas had been family ever since he made the decision to stand by Dean and Sam against the Apocalypse, but the love for Cas had always been different than the love for Sam, or Bobby, or even Jo and Ellen.

There'd been some bad blood between him and Cas throughout the years. The whole Purgatory thing was something Dean wished he could travel back to and do differently. But as he thought on it, the answer to Chuck's question was obvious.

"When I found him, alive, during the Leviathan shit." The first thing he'd felt when he saw Cas playing a Stepford wife was relief. The plethora of other emotions came after, hitting him like a tsunami, but the very first thing that washed through his blood was relief.

Chuck smiled softly.

"You wanted free will, Dean. You fought for it and died for it. You, Sam, and Castiel. That is not something you can pick and pull at. You can't demand free will, but call on me to magically fix your problems. You can't have your cake and eat it too."

It hurt to breathe. "So, what? My mom? She's just—she's just stuck in that other World? It was your prophecy that screwed her over, that screwed my entire family over, and you're not going to help her?"

Chuck sighed. It was hard to tell in the dark, but Dean would've swore Chuck rolled His eyes. "No," Chuck said, mouth in a thin line.

"She didn't even ask to come back, you know. That was all your sister's bright idea! She was happy in Heaven. She hated being back, I could tell."

"Amara has free will too."

"So that's it," Dean snapped. "We're all just screwed again, huh. I guess that's par for the course, but really—you know what? Screw you. No. Fuck you. Fuck you and your high horse and everything you stand for. I'm glad Cas never got to talk to you. And as long as I'm around, he's never talking to you. I thought my dad was an abusive bastard, but man—you make him look like Mister Rogers. My dad wasn't perfect, but I never once doubted that he loved me and Sam. Even when he messed up, I knew he was only doing what he thought would protect us. So, you go do what you do best—disappear, fuck off, and me, Sam, and Cas—we're gonna figure this out. We'll get my Mom back, and we'll figure out what to do with Jack, and we are gonna kill Lucifer.

"And after that, I'm taking my family and getting the Hell out of dodge. We'll take a beach vacation and stop hunting. For real."

Dean pushed back Chuck, wrapped his hand around the doorknob.

"Dean."

Dean's shoulders tensed.

Chuck sighed. "You don't have to worry about the Empty. When you guys die, you'll get into Heaven. I'll let you all into the same Heaven. That's my gift to you."

Dean was tempted to say thanks, but no thanks. If God wouldn't help them, then Dean didn't want anything from Him.

But Dean was done. He was done talking to this asshole. Cas was on the other side of the door, sick, and Dean had been gone for a while already. Cas was probably worried. Dean turned the knob and entered, quickly closing the door behind him.

Cas was curled on the bed, breath shallow and raspy.

"Hey," Dean said, lowering his voice. He walked to the side of the bed and put the bucket of ice on the nightstand. He opened the Sprite bottle and helped Cas sit up.

"There you go," Dean said, handing the bottle to Cas. "Winchester family secret. Cheaper than Pepto-Bismol and way better tasting." Cas coughed after taking a small sip, but once he finished, he took another, longer sip.

Dean went into the bathroom and grabbed a hand towel. He wrapped it with ice. Cas was lying on his side again. Dean put the ice pack on Cas's neck.

"Dean?" he mumbled into the pillow. "Who were you talking to?"

Dean flinched, and bite his lip. Cas's eyes were closed. Dean glanced over his shoulder, at the sigils that were all painted onto the wall. He looked at the window, where the blinds were still closed. Dean turned back to face Cas and made a decision. "No one," he whispered. "Just go to sleep, Cas. I'll watch over you."


	22. Chapter 22

"Children are the keys of paradise."

-Eric Hoffer

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Cas's fever broke sometime at dawn. Dean was too exhausted to keep up with the exact time, but orange sun rays peeked in through the blinds, casting shadows against the floor. Dean had spent the remainder of the night holding ice cubes against Cas's face, making a giant mess as it melted and soaked through everything, but getting water everywhere wasn't even on his radar of things to worry about. He wasn't getting his security deposit back anyway.

Cas began to sweat and shiver and Dean knew that things would be okay.

"You up for more driving?" Normally, Dean would've liked to wait at least another day. Cas still looked like a piece of shit run over, and he needed more rest. Dean didn't want to put Cas through another torturous experience of driving, but he also needed to get back to the bunker ASAP. He needed to see Sam and Jody and Jack. Sam said he and Jody were okay, but Dean had to see it with his own eyes before his anxiety would stop pounding in his veins. Also to see if Jack was good like Sam seemed to think.

Cas nodded and then coughed harshly enough that Dean winced in sympathy.

"How 'bout a shower?" Dean suggested.

.

.

.

Dean didn't think of himself as a prude. He had bathed Sam as a baby. And there were times, after a hunt, when either Dad or Sam would be hurt and in need of extra assistance, and Dean would help them too. He never snickered or felt embarrassed by their nudity. They were family. They needed his help. Dean helped them.

But when it came to Cas, he hesitated. Helping Cas out his pants seemed like a battle all on its own. Dean had turned on the shower first, trying to delay the experience, but soon the room filled with steam and Dean couldn't hold off any longer.

Cas picked mindlessly at the tape covering his stitches.

"Let me," Dean said. He pulled off the one on Cas's chest first. He fought to keep his face impassive as he saw, for the first time, the angry, puckered scar and the gnaw marks of black stitches. Dean traced his hand slowly and gently over the scar. Cas didn't flinch.

"These look better than I thought they would," Dean said, avoiding Cas's eyes. "You know, they might even be able to come out. What do you think?"

Cas shrugged. "You would know better than I would."

"Right." Dean swallowed. The steam in the room was growing thick as fog. "Let's see the back."

He knew the scar on Cas's back could be longer and wider, but seeing it for himself was another thing entirely. He was glad that Cas couldn't see because he didn't think he could hold back his expressions. He was reminded again of watching, helpless, as Lucifer drove the blade straight through Cas's back and out his chest.

Dean left to grab the first aid kit from his duffel. He knelt by Cas's side and cut each stitch, threading it out from Cas's skin. Dean could see the tiny pin-prick scars of where the needle had gone through. Dean was well practiced and finished in just a few minutes. He flushed the pieces down the toilet, wanting them far away from him fast.

"Okay," Dean said, forcing a smile. There was nothing else he could do to delay. He stripped down first, all the way, and then he helped Cas step out of his underwear. Dean fought not to look. This was Cas's body now. God had remade Cas and He'd done it in this visage. Jimmy Novak died years ago. This body was all Cas.

Dean helped Cas step into the shower. Cas sighed as the water began to hit his skin, and the briefest shadow of a smile danced across his lips. Dean followed.

The shower was cramped. Like the bed, it wasn't designed to share. Dean was pressed up against the back wall, and he could touch the sides with his elbows. But Cas looked so happy, Dean didn't have it in him to complain.

The shampoo bottle was tiny in his hand. He squeezed out a pea sized drop and reached up to lather it through Cas's hair. Cas leaned into the touch and Dean worked, rubbing his fingers together as the suds grew thick and white. The gesture was hypnotic. Dean could have stood there like that forever.

The water rinsed out, first gray and then clear as all the muck and grease washed out of Cas's hair.

"Feels good, yeah?" Dean said.

"Very," Cas said.

"Pressure's not as good as the bunker, but hey, nothing beats the bunker."

"Not anything."

Dean kept his composure.

"You know you're not allowed to leave me sight ever again, right? I mean it. You ever do anything like that to me again, I'll be the one to kill you."

Cas smiled softly. "I don't want to leave you. I never want to leave you. But—"

"Yeah, yeah," Dean said, beginning to shampoo his own hair. "You've always got some mission or something. And I get that. Boy, do I. But man, you—you could've died. You almost died. And—" Dean swallowed. His voice echoed in the chambers of the shower.

Castiel reached out and put his hand on Dean's shoulder. The scar had aged away years ago, but Dean swore he felt a spark of something as Cas's skin came in contact with his. "I'll never leave you, Dean."

Dean's face flushed, and it wasn't from the heat of the shower. "Damn straight," he eventually said.

They stayed in there until the water ran cold.

.

.

.

The leaves crunched underneath Sam's boots. When he looked up, the sky was full of autumn, trees a myriad of reds, browns, and oranges. It was chilly for Fall, colder than it usually was this time of year. Sam crossed his arms over his chest and kept an eye on Jack, who was just a few feet ahead.

Jack was mesmerized by everything. The sky. The chirping of birds, the droning of cicadas, the scurrying of squirrels up trees. He looked at everything wide-eyed, with the sort of innocence that was painful for Sam to watch.

He had to remind himself what Jack was capable of. He hadn't meant to kill all those animals earlier, but he still had, and he could do it again. There wasn't any discernible method to Jack's powers. They seemed to come out of nowhere, and were presenting themselves more often. It had started with a few small fires spawning out of thin air. Nothing Sam and Jody couldn't handle, but then lights started flickering on and off, until they burned so bright the bulbs exploded. Recently, Sam handed Jack a bottle of water, and as he passed it off, the liquid inside transformed, steaming and bubbling, and when it finished, what was left inside was a dark, red, viscous replacement of water.

Sam had stared at it quietly for a long moment, throat tightening.

But Jack was smart too. He learned to read in one afternoon, going from Dick and Jane straight to all the old tomes written in Middle English without trouble. He picked up math too, jumping from addition and subtraction straight to calculus. It made Sam uneasy. A smart foe was a dangerous foe, and with his angelic attributes, Jack could probably outsmart him quickly and easily. Sam wanted to avoid that, at least until Jack was better able to control his powers. Once Jack could control himself, he wasn't a threat.

"What's that?" Jack asked, pointing at the sky. Sam craned his neck up and caught sight of a jet plane passing through the clouds.

"An airplane. People fly on it to travel."

"Don't you wish you had wings?"

Sam huffed. "Not really," he said. "I can barely keep the limbs I've got in good shape."

Jack spun on his heels. "Are you hurting, Sam Winchester?" He raised his fingers up.

"I'm good."

The walked in silence for a while.

"So, Cas and Dean are going to be home soon."

"When is soon?"

"As fast as they're able. Cas can't travel too well, so they're gonna take it slow. But they'll get here."

"Dean's soul is bright like the sun."

Sam gnawed on his lip. "Yeah? How'd you know? You haven't even met him yet."

"He's in Castiel's heart too. A lot of people are. You, Dean. Mary. Claire Novak. Hannah. Charlie." Jack paused. Sam was grateful for the break, heart aching at the mention of Charlie. Cas hadn't known Charlie long, but he welcomed her into his life, his family, his heart, without hesitation. "My mom."

Sam had tried not to be thinking about his own mom. About what she might be going through in that other universe. He was deeply torn down both sides, with one hoping against hope that she was alive and fighting, because goddamnit she was a Winchester and it wasn't in their blood to give up and die.

But the other part of Sam wished she was dead already, because if she was dead, she wasn't suffering. Sam had only been in that other World for five minutes and he never wanted to step foot in it again. He wasn't sure how anyone would be able to survive in that wasteland of a planet. There was no sun, no trees, no animals, no sign of life at all. Just those giant, blood stained pillars that penetrated through the Earth and reached all the way up to the sky, relentless, judgmental. If mom was dead, at least she'd be back in her heaven, the one she'd been unfairly ripped from. She'd be back with the Sam and Dean she knew. She'd be happy.

"Look, Sam," Jack said, ripping Sam out his thoughts. Sam hummed and looked to where Jack was pointing. A stray cat was laying across a tree branch, its tail swinging back and forth lazily over the edge. Sam smiled and huffed. It was the kind of thing Cas would point out. Every day, Jack seemed more and more like Castiel than Lucifer.

Sam didn't have time to react. He felt a shift in wind, and when he turned to face it, Asmodeus stood in front of him, scowling, looming over him.

Sam's breath caught in his throat and Asmodeus raised a hand. "Sam Winchester," he snarled, nose scrunching up towards his eyes. "You stupid, stupid, boy."

"Don't touch him," Jack said, his own hand outstretched, palm glowing. "If you touch him, I'll kill you."

Asmodeus smacked his lips. He twisted his neck around to face Jack. He smiled cruelly. "Jack. Son of Lucifer. Do you see yet how you're wasting your potential? Sightseeing? Taking nature walks? It's unbecoming of someone of your caliber."

Jack took a confident step forward. "And what should I be doing?"

"My offer still stands. It won't be for much longer, though. Take it, Jack. I can teach you how to control your powers. You and me, side by side, on the thrones of Hell—we'd be unstoppable."

Jack glanced towards Sam. He swallowed. "But I don't need you."

The color drained out of Asmodeus's face. Jack took another step forward.

"I'm more powerful than you. And that throne belongs to me, You're not fit to rule over Narnia, much less Hell."

Asmodeus straightened his spine. "But you're just one entity. I have behind me the armies of Hell. And the armies of Heaven won't take too kindly to you, either. Sure, you can stand your own against one foe, but dozens? Thousands?"

Jack looked Asmodeus up and down. "I feel sorry for you. I know you didn't want this. What my father did to you was bad."

"Shut up."

"But you don't have to be this way. It's not what you are, but what you do. You don't have to be bad."

"Shut up!"

Sam was immobile, and he didn't know if it was Jack or Asmodeus keeping him still. He wondered what Jack was talking about. If he'd been able to see into Cas's heart, surely he could read minds. What did he see inside Asmodeus's mind?

"Now," Jack said, palm glowing brighter, "leave Sam Winchester alone. Leave all of us alone. You can go back to Hell and stay there, and we will leave you alone. But if you bother us one more time, I will kill you."

Asmodeus's lips curled over his teeth. "Boy, you don't know how."

Jack's eyes began to glow. "That just makes me even more of a threat to you then, doesn't it?"

Baby snakes are deadlier than their parents.

Jack's eyes and palms were both glowing bright, stinging Sam's eyes. Asmodeus snarled.

And then he was gone, just as quickly as he appeared.

The spell lifted off Sam. He fell to his knees, gasping for breath, shuddering with adrenaline.

"Sam?"

Sam lifted his head slowly. Jack's eyes were no longer glowing.

"Are you okay, Sam?"

Sam nodded, struggling to find his voice. "Yeah."

He cursed his own stupidity. Taking Jack out of the bunker had been an idiotic move. Asmodeus was right. It wasn't just Hell that was after him, but angels too.

It wasn't right for Jack to stay locked up in the bunker, like he was a prisoner. But they didn't have any other options. Not that could keep Jack safe.

Sam swallowed. He pushed himself to his feet. "We need to go back."

There was a nearby cracking sound. Sam jumped just in time to avoid the large tree falling down out of nowhere. The cat yowled and ran away, Sam seeing nothing but a flash of orange before it disappeared behind the bushes. Sam gasped and turned back to face Jack. Jack's face flushed and he looked away, ashamed.

.

.

.

"The Princes of Hell used to be angels," Jack said, staring at mug of hot chocolate. Sam's was filled with a bit of liquid courage. He needed it, even though it wasn't even noon. It had been a tiring several days and the stress was finally starting to get to him, seeping into the cracks of his psyche and threatening to pull it all apart.

Sam had figured that much. He learned a long time ago that Azazel had once been an angel; and with Ramiel, the name had been pretty obvious.

"But only Azazel wanted to join Lucifer."

"What do you mean?" Sam asked.

"Azazel chose to become a demon and fight on Lucifer's side. But the others—they didn't want to be demons. Lucifer changed them. Asmodeus thought demons were just as deplorable as humans. He hated what Lucifer had created, just like he hated that God made humans.

"But for him, it was a matter of the lesser of two evils. He didn't want to fight with the angels—and that's even if they would let him, being a demon and all."

"So, he hates Lucifer?" Sam asked.

"With every fiber of his being."

"Huh." That could actually work in their favor. Sam was sure they would need all the help they could get finding Lucifer and killing him. Asmodeus was an asset they couldn't yet throw away. Sam just needed to figure out how to get him on their side. "And you saw all this in his mind?"

"It's easy," Jack answered. "You can't hide anything in your mind. Everyone just screams."

Sam frowned and stared down into his drink. He wished Dean and Cas were back already. Dean would know what to do. Dean wouldn't have been so stupid as to just take Jack and prance around outside.

"I liked outside," Jack said. "It was nice. Pretty."

Sam smiled. "It is nice out here," Sam agreed.

"Do you think we can find the cat?"

Sam laughed. "You sure you're not Cas's kid?"

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.

Dean and Cas would be here soon. Sam hadn't heard from them since talking to Cas on the phone. That had been such a relief, to hear Cas's voice, and to see him over the crappy video service. He couldn't wait for them to come home.

He checked the news in Washington. There was a small article about Cas's disappearance from the hospital—he was labelled mentally ill, and Dean a psychopath. It was probably the nicest thing news outlets had ever said about Dean; but thankfully, the story didn't seem to garner any attention beyond that. It was one less thing Sam had to worry about, and he was thankful he could clear it from his mind. Dean was great at avoiding police and others, but it was best to not bring attention to themselves to begin with. Cas would still be hurt and would stand out like a sore thumb in public.

Sam shut the laptop and rested his forehead against the edge of the table. He didn't dare pray, but he did hope that soon, all his family would be safe and together again.

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.

Kissing Castiel was like finding water in the middle of a desert. Kissing Castiel was like the first taste of sugar. Kissing Castiel was like diving into a cold pool on a hot, summer day. Kissing Castiel was like the first sip of hot chocolate on the most bitter of winter nights.

As he sat there, pressing his lips against Cas's, he wondered why the hell he waited this long.

The kiss was the same as their first one. Gentle, soft. Cas's hair was still wet, and smelled of lilac.

"You sure you're up for the drive?" Dean whispered when they broke.

"I want to go home," Cas said.

Hearing Cas call the bunker home. . . it solidified something deep inside Dean. Something he didn't know he was missing. Cas was in front of him, okay. They would get home. He would be with Sam and Jody and Jack. They would find Mary. Everything would be okay. For the first time in a long time, Dean really believed that.

"Me too," Dean murmured. He looked around the one last time. He wasn't going to be getting his security deposit back, but he didn't care. The bitter old hag would have to get this room fixed up herself. Dean stood up and stretched, old aches and pains reappearing with each movement. He was getting old.

Dean packed up quickly. It was a skill he had mastered throughout his lifetime, and within just a few moments, he was ready to go.

"Come on," Dean said, reaching out his hand. Cas took it and rose to his feet unsteadily. He leaned most of his weight on Dean. "We'll take it slow."

Dean peeked out the eyehole in the door before he exited. He wasn't surprised to see that Chuck had disappeared, but it still stung something in his heart. Dean gnawed on his lip, wondering how he could be so torn on a single subject. He hoped Chuck wouldn't just appear, though, as soon as Dean and Cas left the room and the sigils that had blocked Him out.

Dean opened the door and stepped over the threshold and Chuck didn't show. He sighed and walked with Cas to the Impala. To Dean's surprise, Cas reached for the passenger door.

"You sure you don't want to get in the back? You can lie down."

"I'm sure," Cas said, opening the door.

Dean threw his duffel bag into the trunk and then got in the driver's seat. He had paid for the night in cash. The front desk lady would probably come to kick them out by check out time that afternoon, but by then, they would be long gone.

Dean turned the key and the engine roared to life. Dean began the long drive home.

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Castiel stared out the window the entire time, watching the scenery blur by in a flash of melded colors as Dean sped down the roads. The radio was on, but low, the music barely audible but the vibrations shaking the car. Dean wasn't even sure what tape was playing. He picked one randomly from his shoebox and stuffed it in. It wasn't the mixtape he made playing. Dean had taken that and put it in his duffel bag to keep it safe.

Cas leaned against the window, the sun rays shining across his face. He still looked exhausted, and still desperately needed a shave. But he was here. Dean couldn't help himself from glancing out of the corners of his eyes every few moments and catching glimpses of Cas. He tightened his hands around the steering wheel.

"You were there," Cas mumbled, breath fogging up the window.

"Huh?"

"In my dreams. You were really there, weren't you?"

Dean swallowed. "Yeah."

Cas huffed.

"So. . . all that was real? All that stuff actually happened?"

"Yes."

Dean chewed on his lip. "What about your wing? When you, you know—" hacked it off, "—after the hellhound bit you?"

Castiel rolled his shoulder. "It healed, eventually. Slowly. Wing injuries are awful to endure. But my grace was still fully powered back then, and I was still fully connected to the Host and its magic. The bone and muscle grew back."

Dean's stomach churned at the thought. It sounded sickening and painful.

But, also, it was a reminder of what Cas wasn't anymore. He was human now, but his grace had been low and damaged for years. He'd been disowned from Heaven even longer. He thought of the shadows burned into the ground, the way the bones had been distorted. How long had Cas walked around with his wings broken and busted up?

"Thank you, Dean."

Dean did a double take. "Huh?"

"If you hadn't been there. . . I don't think I could have done it."

Dean's heart began to beat faster. "Do what?"

"Wake up."

Dean nearly slammed on the brakes. He maintained just enough sense to keep coasting, but he did lose significant speed and the car behind them started slamming on their horn before angrily passing.

"I just. . .I am very old, Dean. And I was reliving my entire life. Reliving all my mistakes. And I just couldn't see the point in going back."

"Don't talk like that."

"Dean," Cas sounded annoyed and exasperated, and so much like his usual self that Dean was relieved at snappish tone. Cas sighed. "But then you were there. Talking to me. Do my mistakes really not matter to you?"

"We're family, man. Family—it's an all or nothing deal, okay? You don't get to cherry pick. Yeah, you've had your share of screw ups. So have I. So has Sam. And guess what? We've probably got a lot more screw ups down the line. But that's not gonna stop me from loving you or Sam."

"Even if my screw ups tend to be of the cosmic proportions?"

Dean chuckled. "Man, what show have you been watching? I think we've all got the claim on cosmic screw ups. I did take on a literal Mark of the Beast in case you forgot."

Cas huffed and rolled his eyes. "Yes. That was idiotic of you."

"Anyway. Look. Whatever happened in the past—it's in the past. Can't do anything about it, okay? All you can do is try to be better in the future. And I want you in that future, okay?"

Dean sighed and tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. "You know, some years ago, I thought I just needed Sam to be happy. But that's not true anymore. I need you there too. 'Cause when I thought you were dead. . ." It hurt just to think about it. Dean's heart was seized in a vise and his stomach twisted into hot, tight knots. "I love Sam. And I love you. And I need both of you to be happy."

Dean looked over at Cas when he heard a soft noise. Cas was sniffling.

"Aw, shit. I didn't mean—c'mon, Cas. Please don't cry."

"No." Cas shook his head. "Dean, I'm. . . I'm very happy. I—for the longest time, I was so envious of you and Sam. I coveted what you two had. I coveted that someone would love me as much as you two loved one another." Cas swallowed. "Dean, your capacity for love is boundless. You love with all your heart, and it is the greatest honor of my life to be included in that."

Dean's mouth dried. Fuck. He hated when Cas talked like that. It wasn't right for Cas to be saying this stuff to him. If anything, Dean should be the one saying this fancy shit to Cas. Cas was angel. It didn't matter what happened; he'd always been an angel to Dean. And Dean—he was just a man. And not a very good one, at that. He was busted up, and Hell still ran in his veins years and years later. Somedays, he felt like he was skirting towards being something demonic than humane.

Cas was still staring at him. Dean could feel Cas's gaze bearing into him.

Cas had rescued Dean from Hell. Cas knew everything Dean did down in the Pit, knew how much Dean enjoyed it, and he still looked at Dean like that. Like Dean hung the moon.

"Thanks, Cas," Dean said eventually It was all he could think to say. "And you know you're family, right? Sam loves you too. Soon as we get Mom back home, we're all gonna be together, okay? Like we should be."

Dean chewed on his lip. He had found the courage deep inside his gut and he forced it up. He reached across the seat and grabbed Cas's hand. His face burned in embarrassment. Cas stared at their hands in mild confusion and Dean's courage was slowly metamorphosing into nausea. He didn't know why. He and Cas had kissed already. They showered together this morning. A little hand holding should be a cake walk compared to that.

He nearly pulled his hand away, but then, Cas rotated his hand, and gripped onto Dean's hand. Dean's blush did not deepen like a twelve year old girl.

The scenery blurred past them as they inched their way closer to home.


	23. Chapter 23

_The enemy of my enemy is my friend_

-Ancient Sanskrit Proverb

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

 _Azazel was arrogant and stupid, a deadly combination. He did not hesitate. He rushed towards Michael, sword in hand, and arms wide open, beckoning Michael like a cowboy did a bull._

 _Azazel was a Prince, but he still was no match for an archangel; especially not Michael._

 _And thankfully, Michael always had a one-track mind. He was so focused on rushing Azazel, sword glowing and flaming, that Gabriel was able to whisk himself away quickly and quietly._

 _If the others want to call him a coward, so be it. He didn't survive this long by rushing headfirst into danger._

The horn was heavy in his hands. Gabriel traced his fingertips over the curve. It had been a long time since he held it. The weight was unfamiliar. The gold less shiny than he remembered.

"She can't fight three of us at once," his Lucifer said.

"She knows how to make a banishing sigil. Kinda hard for us to stand our own against that, no?" the strange Lucifer said.

"Well, we'll just have to kill her before she finishes it. Come on, seriously. You really scared of a mud monkey?"

"Scared? No. Cautious, yes." The strange Lucifer bit his lip. "Look. This isn't like the good old days. Eve, Lilith? They were two stupid bitches. This gal ain't gonna just roll over."

Lucifer rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Let's just get going. Gabriel, you ready?"

Gabriel swallowed. He didn't raise his eyes. "Yeah."

He kept tracing his fingertips over the curves of his horn.

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Mary traced her fingers around the can, digging down to the bottom and licking the remnants off. She never thought she'd see the day when she was sick of tomato soup, but she had passed that point a long time ago. It was cold and slimy, moving down her throat slowly and then landing in her stomach like a rock. She wasn't sure if it was going to make her sick or not.

She took a tentative sip of tepid water. They had begun to run low on it.

She rubbed her ankles, wincing. They were sore and swollen, and her shoes had holes worn into the sides. They had been traveling for days now; sometimes well into the night, too, and the scenery never changed. The same gray, desert-like landscape greeted her at every mile. The same pillars jutted out of the ground. The sky was filled with flashing colors, and black smoke, and often she and Bobby would have to take cover behind one of the pillars, guns at the ready, but nothing ever appeared. Not even one of the Tempter demons Bobby talked about.

"That can't be good," Bobby had said. "I never go this long without seeing one of 'em."

"Why is that a bad thing?"

Bobby looked at her curiously. "You ever do any huntin'? I mean, regular huntin'. Deer, duck, that kind of thing?"

"No."

Bobby huffed. He rubbed his jaw. "Why would a top predator suddenly run away from something?"

Mary thought on it for a moment. "There's something stronger than it nearby."

"Bingo."

"So, these Tempter demons—"

"Are scared shitless of something. Whatever it is, it can't be good for us."

Mary had just hummed in agreement and marveled at how much had changed. Before, nothing had been stronger than a demon. And then suddenly, angels come into the mix, and they're powerful, but not invincible, and everything was so different than what she grew up with. She didn't know what to think.

"Please tell me we're almost there," she moaned, feeling ready to cry. She wanted to go home. She wanted to see her boys, hold them close to her, breathe them in.

Bobby grunted. They were both badly sunburned, skin peeling on their faces and arms. "I figure, another day, maybe two."

Mary sighed. Two more days. She could do that. She lost count of how they had been travelling already, but she could handle two more days. She just had to push through.

"What if Gabriel never shows?"

"Let's not think about that." Mary pushed herself to her feet. She was a bit unsteady. She put her arms out to catch her balance. "He's an angel."

Bobby snorted. "That supposed to mean anything?"

"He's not just any angel. He—he's in the Bible. He helped God, before. He's God's Messenger."

"And Lucifer was his favorite." Bobby got to his feet. "I know this is a shock, but the angels aren't our friends."

"I know that," Mary snapped. She knew everything Sam and Dean had told her. How angels were nothing more than 'dicks with wings.' How they had orchestrated everything, had their hands muddling in the Winchester and Campbell genomes for centuries, all in order to ensure the birth of Sam and Dean; create the strongest bloodline possible, stemming all the way back to Cain and Abel.

But not all angels had to be bad. Castiel wasn't. And Gabriel had helped Sam and Dean once before. He stood up against the Apocalypse back in her home World. Surely that meant she had a chance her.

"I think you'll find, though," Mary continued, "that us Winchesters are well-mastered in the art of persuasion."

Bobby snorted. "No shit." He shook his head. "First your kid convinces me to give up my angel bazooka, then you get me out of my home to track down and talk to an angel." Bobby sighed. "My Mary was just as stubborn, though. Say what you want, but somethings are just inherent to us, no matter what World we find ourselves in."

"Yeah?"

"I better be as big a moron in your World as I am here—otherwise, I'm just one sucker, huh."

"I didn't meet you in my World. But I know that you were good friends with my sons and their father."

Bobby rolled his eyes. "Your family needs to have some kind of warning taped to your backs, warn people to stay away."

Mary huffed. Bobby was grouchy, but Mary could tell what he said was in good humor.

"You ready? The sooner we get to Stull, the sooner you can go back to being a hermit."

"I'll drink to that. You know. If I had anything."

Bobby's hands shook violently. He buttoned his coat further up. Mary licked her lips. They were dry and badly chapped, scabbed over in some places from her continuous biting.

She inhaled and took another step.

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 _The Yellow Eyed demon's breath was rancid. It coiled down her throat, snaking all the way down to her guts. Mary's eyes were painfully clenched shut, hand fisting into his coat. This thing wore her father's face, and that only made everything more disgusting. More abhorrent._

 _John's body was motionless beside her. Mary knew his eyes would be open, but lifeless, neck twisted at an unnatural angle._

 _Finally they broke and Mary swallowed down a sob. She trembled, freezing all the down to her marrow. Slowly, she peeled open her eyes. The Yellow Eyed demon was grinning._

 _"Well," he said, smacking his lips, getting to his feet. Mary's heart pounded against her chest. "Guess I'll see you in ten years, sweet cheeks."_

 _His mouth opened and a long, bilious, black smoke climbed out his throat, going straight up towards the sky. Her father's body fell straight to the asphalt, a sickening cracking noise filling the air. Mary flinched._

 _Beside her, John gasped and coughed. She quickly turned her attention to him, crawling on hands and knees, not caring about the gravel carving up her palms and knees._

 _"John?_

 _John coughed again and turned to face her. "Mary?"_

 _Mary pulled him into her lap, tears racing down her face. "John."_

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.

She had been happy with John. He was kind and caring. When Mary broke the news that she was pregnant for the first time, his face lit up like a Christmas tree. He grabbed her hips and spun her around, and they kissed and kissed.

Mary had forgotten about her deal. She'd been trapped in her suburban euphoria. Even when she did go on the occasional hunt, she didn't think about her deal. She'd been too engrossed in solving the case, saving people, and bringing closure to the victims' families.

John had been a wonderful father. He played with Dean all the time. He listened intently to Dean's mindless, toddler ramblings. And when she announced for the second time she was pregnant, she had seen that glorious smile on his face one more time.

She couldn't reconcile the image of John she had with what Toni told her. _Child abuse_ , she said.

Mary had read John's journal. She listened to stories about him from Sam and Dean. Never, never did they once allude to John being cruel or hurtful.

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 _"Why is he so tiny?" Dean asked, standing on his tiptoes to peer over the bassinet._

 _Mary smiled and ran her fingers through Dean's hair. "He's just a baby. You were that tiny once too."_

 _"Nah-uh."_

 _"Oh, you bet. Don't you remember sleeping in a crib? And bathing in the sink?"_

 _Dean shook his head. "No way. I'm a big boy."_

 _"Yes you are. And you know what that means, right? You gotta be a good big brother to Sammy. He's gonna look up to you his whole life."_

 _Dean stared at the sleeping Sam, eyes wide, mesmerized._

 _John was standing in the doorway, propped against the edge. Mary didn't need to look at him to know he was smiling._

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They couldn't sleep that night. The angels were fighting again, clashing in the clouds, lighting them up in a variety of vivid colors. Mary couldn't escape the noise, either; like a never ending car crash. Her head ached from sleep deprivation and misery, and her feet were swollen, barely able to be contained by her shoes.

"Almost there," Bobby said, huffing. His face was flushed and sweaty. Mary knew he was in more pain than he was letting on. "Just a few more miles."

Mary looked around and recognized nothing. She had lived in Lawrence, Kansas nearly all her life, but this looked nothing like the town she grew up in. Some buildings still stood, but they were ramshackle, and fully looted, with busted windows and broken down doors.

The rest looked like a gray desert. Mary swallowed and fought for composure. She tried to remind herself that this wasn't her town, not really. It couldn't be, not when this wasn't her World. She couldn't even recognize any of the buildings. Nothing called out to her memory.

"Hold on, Sammy. Dean," she whispered to herself. She had failed her boys several times already. Dean's tearful speech still echoing in her brain. _I hate you. And I love you_.

Mary couldn't fail them again. They needed her. And she needed them. She didn't know why Amara had chosen to give her a second chance at life, but she hazarded a guess that this was it: so that she could connect with her children as she should have been allowed to from the very beginning. This was a gift and she would not squander it. Not like she had been.

"Bobby," Mary said, broken glass cracking underneath her boots.

"Hm?"

Mary hesitated. "Thank you. For coming with me."

Bobby snorted. "Well, I would have a hard time sleeping with your death hanging on my conscience."

Bobby didn't look at her, but Mary didn't need to see his face to know the truth. This wasn't about her. This was about the Other Mary. The one that had been Bobby's friend; that had died a long time ago.

How long had Bobby been cooped up in that Bunker all alone? Before they all stumbled through the tear in reality, how long had it been since Bobby had any human contact? Bobby hadn't spoken much of the friends he had lost throughout the years. Mary imagined the number to be fairly high. It was the life of a hunter—you either died, or survived and watched all your friends die. Mary wanted to ask, but the question got stuck on the tip of her tongue.

She kept on walking.

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.

 _Mary turned the little figurine on the shelf so that it was facing forward. Dean giggled and reached out for it, but Mary caught his tiny hands just in time._

 _"You have to be careful," she said gently. "You don't want it to break."_

 _Dean stared at the figurine with excited eyes. Mary smiled. It had been a tiny thing she found at a flea market, but it had spoken to her. Keeping a ceramic figurine in the bedroom of a rambunctious four year old seemed like a bad idea, but Mary had known the minute she picked it up, it belonged above Dean's bed._

 _Mary kissed his temple softly. "Never forget, dear. You have angels watching over you."_

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.

The cemetery was destroyed. Large trees had fallen over, what looked like many years ago, and decayed right on the ground. Headstones had eroded, the markings washed all the way off. The dirt had been weathered away and there was nothing left but sand.

"Well," Bobby grumbled, sitting down on a headstone, "go ahead. Make your call." Bobby dropped his sack off his shoulder and rolled it. Then he reached for his gun, cocked it, and held it steady.

Mary shivered uneasily. She looked up to the sky. "Um. Hello." She winced. She'd never really prayed before. Not even with Dean as a child, despite her fantastical tales of guardian angels. "Gabriel? I need to speak with you, please. It's urgent."

Nothing.

Mary took a step forward, arching her neck back to look at the sky. "I need help, and I think you're the only one that can give it to me. My name is Mary." She held off on giving a last name, just in case. Names were powerful. Letting a potential enemy know your full name was suicide.

Still nothing. Behind her, Bobby shifted and she resisted the urge to spin around and yell at him. She did not need to hear an "I told you so" from him. She had traveled over two hundred miles on foot, over the course of just a few days. She was tired and sore and hungry, and she missed her boys, and she just wanted to go home.

"I call on thee, Archangel Gabriel. I am in need of your assistance."

It was silent again. Mary's eyes burned. She clenched a fist.

And then, there was a great gust, a beat of wings. Mary's hair blew around, whipping her in the face, and then it was gone.

"Holy shit," Bobby said.

There was someone in front of Mary. He was about average height, with long blonde hair, very similar to Sam's. And he looked pissed off, arms crossed over his chest.

"Gabriel?" Mary asked tentatively.

"The one and only," Gabriel said with a mock bow. He even tilted his chin.

"Holy shit," Mary said. She covered her mouth with her hands, shock recoiling through her body. "Wow. I can't believe it's really you."

"Well, get believing lady. I don't got all day. What is it you want?"

"I'm not from this World."

"No kidding," Gabriel said with a sneer.

"Excuse me?"

"I can smell on it on you. You smell. . .well. Different than what people from this Universe smell like."

Mary shifted on her feet. "I need to get back to my World, and I think you're the only one who can help me."

Gabriel sighed. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Mary, was it? Look, Mary, I'd like to help, but in case you haven't noticed, I've got bigger fish to fry at the moment. Apocalypse. End of the World. You know how it goes."

"Please." Mary's voice cracked. She couldn't believe she had resorted to begging. She was a hunter—stoic, resilient. And more importantly, she was a Winchester—they never would have stooped so low.

But she didn't have many other options available to her.

"Put that away," Gabriel said, looking over Mary's shoulder to Bobby. "If I wanted to hurt either of you, I would have done it by now. Capische?"

"You'll have to forgive me if I don't trust you," Bobby grumbled. Gabriel rolled his eyes, but shrugged.

"Fine. Have it your way."

"Don't go," Mary said. "Please, Gabriel. If you won't help me, then—then that's it. Then there's no way I can ever get back to my World."

"Don't worry your little heart, honey," another voice spoke. Mary's blood ran cold. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up straight.

Lucifer grinned and cocked his head. He waved minutely. "Did you miss me, Mary?"

Bobby got to his feet. Lucifer rolled his eyes. "Come on. Not this again. Dumb and Dumber already tried this, don't you remember?"

Lucifer stepped closer to Mary. "You didn't think you could hide from me forever, did you?"

"Back off," Gabriel said.

Mary stared at Gabriel, eyes wide, mouth agape. It felt like the air had been sucked away, and she was trapped in an empty vacuum.

"What did you say?"

"She's not worth the effort it would take to kill her," Gabriel said. "A flick of the wrist, and bam! There goes her neck. No satisfaction. Humans are so fragile. You can't even have proper fun with them. Leave them alone."

"Where is this coming from, Gabriel?"

"Look. I'm all for seeing this war finished. But I am not for killing any of Daddy's little toys."

Lucifer stared at Gabriel. There was something deep in his eyes; a hurricane, a whirlwind of severity. There was something heavy behind his eyes. A mountain of turmoil she couldn't hope to understand.

Lucifer scoffed. He shook his head. "Unbelievable. Un-freaking-believable." Lucifer wiped his chin with his hand. "You screw me over in two Worlds, huh? Well. Guess I'll just have to kill you twice then."

"Hold on," another voice spoke. Mary turned.

Vince Vincente was before her now, glaring at Lucifer. "This is my World, in case you've forgotten. I will not have you slaughtering my men."

Lucifer clicked his tongue. "Perhaps you should re-evaluate whom you give your trust. He betrayed me in my World. And it's only a matter of time before he betrays you too."

"You're Lucifer?" Mary couldn't contain herself. Vince Vincente sneered and shrugged.

"One of many, apparently," he said. He sniffed the air and smiled, eyes flicking to a blood red. "Your bloodline is strong. Very strong."

"Get the hell away from me," Mary snarled.

Lucifer sighed. "Guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tree after all."

"Don't make me use this thing," Bobby grunted, hoisting the gun up higher.

Both Lucifers rolled their eyes, unamused.

"Give it a try, grandpa," the Other Lucifer said. "But I've been around the block more than once to know what's capable of killing me."

"Please, Gabriel," Mary pleaded. "Please, for the love of God. I know about you. In my World, you're a hero. You helped my boys do something great. Please. It doesn't matter what you've done until this point. It doesn't matter what side you've pledged yourself to. You can choose to do the right thing right now."

"And that would be helping you?"

"Enough of this," Lucifer snarled. He shoved past Gabriel, stalked towards Mary. Mary stepped back, swallowing. "Mary. Mary Mary quite contrary, how does your garden grow?" Lucifer chuckled. He reached forward, caressing the back of his palm against Mary's cheek. Mary flinched and shivered at the contact. Lucifer's skin was oily, and it made a chill race down her spine.

"With silver bells and cockle shells," Lucifer continued, crooning, "and all your pretty maids in a row."

"Enough!" The Other Lucifer snapped. "Didn't anyone ever tell you not to play with your food?"

"But that's what makes it more delicious."

"Seriously," Gabriel said. He inched closer to Mary. Mary's eyes warily slide from Lucifer to Gabriel, and she swallowed. She could see it in Gabriel's eyes—the same kindness, the same reluctance that was in Castiel's. "Leave her. Michael's gonna find us eventually. He's gonna be know you killed Raphael and raided the weaponry, and he's gonna be pissed."

"I'm not scared of Michael," Lucifer said.

"You should be. I don't know what went down in your World, but here: Michael is still the head honcho and this war hasn't lasted this long because he's an idiot."

"Hold on," the Other Lucifer said. He flicked his wrist and Mary heard a cry behind her.

"Bobby!" she looked over her shoulder to see Bobby crash into a nearby headstone, then slide against the ground, making a rut in the dirt. His palm was bleeding. There was a half finished banishing sigil on the headstone he had been sitting on.

Bobby groaned. He tried to push himself up on all fours, but his arms shook violently and he couldn't support his weight. He fell and groaned again, wincing.

"Next time, be faster with your little finger painting," the Other Lucifer said, grinning and waving his fingers. He walked closer. Mary's skin was covered in goosebumps, hairs on end.

She was going to die. She was going to die in this awful World and she would never see her boys again. She had just gotten them back only for them to be ripped away from her immediately. She was going to get Bobby killed too. After all he had done for her. She never would have made it this far without him, and now he was going to die. And there was nothing she could do to save either of them.

She inhaled. She had died once. Burned alive. Nothing could be more painful than that, right? Not even dying by Lucifer's hands.

Did different Worlds share the same Heaven?

There was a strong hand on her shoulders and she braced herself.

It was like she was thrown into a tornado. She was spinning, falling, faster and faster and then she was still. Her stomach jumped into her lungs.

Mary opened her eyes. She didn't recognize where she was. But it wasn't the graveyard. Somewhere nearby, she heard Bobby groan again.

"Don't say I never did anything for you," Gabriel said, bending down and putting his fingers to Bobby's forehead. A low, blue light covered Bobby's skin and then Bobby sighed.

"Relax," Gabriel said, dusting off his hands. "He's sleeping. He'll be okay. Now." He looked her in the eye, and Mary felt like he could see right into her soul. "I guess you and I have some talking to do."


	24. Chapter 24

_AN: Well, I had hoped to get this story done before s13 aired, and it just didn't happen. Still, I hope you guys will continue to read and enjoy this story despite hellatus being over. The end isn't too far off, but there's a lot of action pending._

 _ALSO: Please keep comments spoiler free. Due to my schedule I won't be able to watch the premiere for a few days and I like to remain relatively spoiler free. Thank you!_

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 _Every parting gives a foretaste of death; every reunion a hint of resurrection._

-Arthur Schopenhauer

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Living in the bunker for the past several years had spoiled Dean a bit. Having a place to return after each hunt was surprisingly easy to get accustomed to. An entire lifetime of living out of motels with questionable health code grades, having a home that was all his own, that he knew, was something Dean had always wanted, even as a kid. The nomad life just wasn't any fun.

He was being reminded of how not fun it was as he slowly made his way back to the bunker. Normally, he could power through a sleepless night to drive, make it clear across the country in just a handful of hours.

But this trip, he had to take slow. Cas wouldn't admit it, but Dean knew he was hurting, and probably still sick. Few things sucked worse than being trapped in a car for hours on end. Dean took the drive slow. He drove the speed limit and stopped often, including for the night. He tried to go for motels that weren't totally questionable, but his fake credit cards could only go so far. It took them two days to get from Washington to Utah. The Interstate was full of religious billboards, professing the gospel of Joseph Smith. It put a sour taste in the back of Dean's throat, unable to get the conversation with Chuck out of his mind.

He'd never spent this much time alone with Castiel before. Never. He wasn't used to having Cas in his space like this; like how he grew up with Sam. There when he went to bed, still there when he woke up. On top of that, Cas was human now, and that added another layer of complexity to the situation.

"You hungry?" Dean asked, looking at the gas meter. He had a quarter of a tank left. Baby could go for a while longer on that, but if they were going to stop for food, might as well top off.

"Hmm?"

"Are you hungry?"

Cas paused. "I don't know."

That didn't make Dean feel better. Still, he got off at the next exit and searched around for something that seemed edible.

The diner was homely. Right as they walked in, Dean was hit with the scent of home baked goods, and the sound of the fryer back in the kitchen. The waitress was an elderly woman in a pink smock, with curly white hair.

"And just where are you young gentleman from?" she asked, surprising Dean with a Minnesotan accent.

"We're headed home, back to Kansas," Dean said.

"Oh, that's nice."

Dean ordered a hamburger for himself. Cas stared at the menu as though he couldn't read it. Eventually, though, he met the waitress's eye and asked for the same. Dean bit his lip, unable to help but worry. What if it made Cas sick? Still, it was the first time Cas seemed to show any interest food, and that was a good thing.

Dean didn't know what to do or say. The waitress left and it was just the two of them, alone at their table, and an ocean of silence between them. Almost ten years they'd known each other. They'd been comrades in battle so many times, Dean didn't know how to talk to Cas about the mundane aspects of life.

"Dean," Cas said, eventually. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Dean said, tracing over an engraving on the table—the initials AR & LP with a heart drawn around them.

"Dean."

"This is just. It's different."

Cas chewed on his lip. "Different doesn't have to be bad."

"It's not bad." Dean meant that. He meant that with every fiber of his being. "Believe me, I don't think it's bad. It's just. . ."

"I understand."

Dean snorted. Slowly, Cas reached across the table, and Dean pulled his hand back like he'd been burned. He rejected it the instant he saw the hurt look flash in Cas's eyes, but—

"Damn it," Dean muttered. "Cas, do you know where we are?"

Cas had his classic, puzzled look; like the answer was obvious, and he was outside the joke. "A diner in Utah?"

Dean sighed. "Look. Remember that bitch at the motel a few days ago?"

Cas probably didn't. He'd been near delirious with fever. Still, he nodded.

"Well, something like that is the least of our worries, okay? This place. . . some places aren't as friendly as others. Okay? It's not about you, or me. It's about not getting our asses kicked okay?"

Cas's eyes slide around the diner. It wasn't too crowded, but there were other people scattered about. Families, one other couple, a business man alone with his laptop.

"Oh," Cas said.

"Yeah."

Cas pulled his hand back and put it in his lap. The waitress came by a few minutes with their food.

The mood thankfully changed. Cas ate his burger slowly, but he was eating. A little bit of color returned to his cheeks.

"You like that, wait till we get home," Dean said, licking the sauce off his fingers. "I can make a mean burger."

"I'd like that," Cas said, smiling.

It was a pure moment. Dean wished it didn't have to end. Something so mundane shouldn't have such a profound impact, but in that instance Dean couldn't look away. Castiel was a million years old. He was a warrior from birth, molded by the wills of Heaven to be a force of pure destruction. He'd seen everything. The destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. The fall of the tower of Babel. The flood that wiped out the first remnants of humanity, and the exodus of the slaves of Egypt as Heaven parted the Red Sea.

That was just the surface. The old, powerful Biblical stuff. He'd seen the human stuff too. The Crusades, and Plague. The Renaissance. All of humanity's wars, those done in the name of God and of earthly kings.

Cas led battles in Heaven.

And here he was, sitting in a dirty diner booth in bumfuck nowhere, smiling down at a _burger_ ; days out of the hospital, days out of a coma, after being stabbed nearly straight through the fucking heart.

Dean remembered a time, years ago, when Cas looked at him sadly and said, "I'd rather be here." Here, meaning Earth. Here, meaning with Dean. And now he had it.

The light came in through the window at just the perfect angle, shining right above Cas's head. Dean decided never before had Cas looked so angelic.

"What?" Cas said.

"Nothing," Dean said. "I—I'm just glad you're here."

"Me too."

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Dean drove a bit further, through Utah, and most of Colorado before Cas started to look queasy again and Dean booked another motel. Thankfully the desk clerk there didn't harass them; but she smelt so strongly of marijuana that Dean soon began to feel sick and hastily took the keys from her.

The room was a double, but Dean and Cas slept in the same bed. It was surprisingly easy to get accustomed too. It reminded Dean of sharing a bed with Lisa during that year; how comforting it was to have the warmth of another person nearby. Cas kicked him in his sleep and Dean couldn't find it in him to be annoyed. He would take the movement. Movement meant Cas was alive.

When he fell asleep that night, he was plagued by nightmares. That blade skewering through Cas's chest, and Cas's eyes glowing that awful, awful light.

Dean woke up with his breath caught in his lungs, heart slamming against his ribs. He gasped before he was able to breathe normally. He turned over, afraid of what he would find.

Cas's face was pressed against the pillow. His hair was sticking up in all directions. His chest was rising and falling.

Dean swallowed and fell back against his pillow.

Cas started to snore, and Dean thought he could cry.

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"Alternate universes are tricky," Cas said over breakfast. It was just cereal, but now that Cas was human, Dean was going to teach Cas all the good bits that came with that. He didn't do that last time. He had a lot to make up for. Lucky Charms couldn't undo how badly Dean screwed up last time, but Dean had to make the most of it. "There's an infinite number of them. To travel between them, you have to know which one exactly you are leaving, and which one you want to go."

"Okay. How do we figure that out?"

Cas shrugged. "Each universe has its own signature, but only Heaven knows for sure the exact name of each one."

"Wait. Are there multiple Heavens? Multiple Hells? Heaven and Hell are separate dimensions on their own, right?"

"Not quite. Heaven and Hell are. . . well, they're different planes of the same dimension. Much like how Earth is made up of different countries, just on a larger scale. Theoretically, each dimension has its own Heaven, Earth, and Hell."

"Wait. If there are an infinite number of universes, and each universe has its own Heaven and Hell, then aren't there some universes that _don't_ have Heaven and Hell?"

Cas smiled wryly and picked the marshmallows out of his bowl. "Theoretically."

Dean rolled his eyes. "You heathen. You can't eat just the marshmallows."

"Why not?"

"Because it's a waste!"

"Their ratio really is abhorrent," Cas lamented.

"It's better with milk," Dean said, wincing. "Sorry." Traveling out of motels really didn't let him keep a well stocked kitchen.

"We'll be home soon, right?"

"Yup. Should get there by tonight."

"You're nervous."

Dean swallowed. He didn't know how, even without his angel powers, Cas still knew exactly how he felt.

"Well, we do have Satan's kid in our home."

"Jack isn't evil."

Dean resisted saying anything on that subject. He didn't want to get into an argument with Cas.

"He's not, Dean. We are not our parents. You're judging him for something he hasn't even done yet."

"Look, I'm gonna have to see it to believe it. Or did you forget that he screwed with your head and made you into his Stepford bitch?"

Cas's mouth turned to a thin line. Cas stood up suddenly, chair screeching against the tiled floor, and locked himself in the bathroom. Dean sighed and put his forehead against the edge of the table. He supposed it was only a matter of time before he found a way to screw this up. He screwed everything up, eventually. Being in such a contained space with Cas for so long—it was bound to happen sooner or later.

Dean wished Sam was here. Sam would tell him what to say to make this better.

Dean sighed. He stood up, legs shaky. He waited outside the door for a minute before he found the courage to knock.

"Cas? C'mon. I'm sorry."

Cas hadn't seen himself, though. Hadn't seen the way his eyes changed to an eerie yellow that reminded Dean too much of his childhood.

"Look." Dean swallowed. It went down slow and thick, nearly catching in the middle. "You're right. I don't know if Jack is gonna be evil or not. And I shouldn't assume he's gonna be evil just 'cause he's Lucifer's kid. But we have to be careful. We can't just assume he's butterflies and sunshine. He's a time bomb and if he goes off, he'll take half the planet with him. Whether he wants to or not."

Dean heard the tumblers click. The door opened.

"We've nearly taken half the planet with us, at times. Whether we wanted to or not."

Dean sighed. "Then I guess Jack will fit right in with us, won't he?"

A shadow of a smile. That was good. That was something; more than Dean deserved.

"I don't like fighting with you, Dean."

"You think I do?"

"It seems at times that's all we do."

Dean reached out and put his hand on Cas's shoulder. "We're family. We're supposed to always be pissed at each other." He. "Okay. We cool?"

"We're cool," Cas said, in that way he had—the inflection that covered air quotes and everything. Dean grinned.

"Great. Then let's get home."

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It was late when they finally, finally got home. The sun had set hours ago, and Dean had to maneuver the Impala down the windy, dirt road with just the headlights on, cautious of deer and other wildlife. The moon was nearly full; large and bright in the sky.

When Dean put the car in park in front of the door, his stomach was hot with tension. He didn't know what to anticipate of Jack. Sam had been calling him regularly, and keeping him up to date. According to Sam, Jack was mostly okay. Nice, even, Sam had said over one phone call.

"He's kind of like Cas," Sam said.

"What do you mean?"

Sam had paused. "You'll understand when you meet him. He's got powers Dean, and he can't really control them yet—by the way, we're gonna need a new toaster—but he's not what we thought."

Dean had scoffed, and eventually hung up.

Now, minutes away from meeting the literal spawn of Satan, Dean didn't know what to think. Cas and Sam seemed to think Jack was decent. Good, even. But Dean couldn't let himself think that. Not yet. Cas was right—Jack wasn't going to be evil because his father was Lucifer. If Jack was going to be evil, it was because Jack wanted to be evil.

"You ready?" Dean asked.

"I miss Sam."

"Me too." They hadn't been separated this long since Dean became a demon. Circumstances were different this time. It had been necessary for them to separate this time. Still, Dean didn't like being away from Sam for so long, even if they were on good terms, and even if they were in constant communication.

Dean had been prepared to sit in the car for a bit, gather his wits, before he crossed the threshold and met Baby Satan. Sam, apparently, had other ideas.

The front door slammed open and Sam was racing out. Dean barely had time to realize what was happening before Sam ripped open the passenger side door and had Cas in a vise grip.

"Cas!" Sam had Cas crushed against his chest. It was an odd angle—Sam was standing, bent over, and Cas still sitting. Sam had pulled Cas half out of the car, and smushed Cas's face against his neck. "Oh my god," Sam choked. "I'm so glad you're okay! I—I—"

"Sam, he was just in a coma not even a week ago!"

"Shit. Sorry. Sorry. Did I hurt you?" Sam released his grip a bit, but he kept a hand on Cas's leg.

"I'm okay," Cas said. He sounded okay, but Dean was suspicious. He had seen those scars on Cas's chest and back. Red and raw. They still had to hurt.

But Cas was smiling. And not a small, shy smile that Dean was used to, that Dean used to have to try so hard to win. A real smile. Toothy and wide. Dean couldn't remember if he'd ever seen Cas smile like that.

"It's good to see you again, Sam," Cas said.

Sam exhaled and laughed. "Understatement. Come on. Jody's got dinner, and there's someone you two need to meet."

"Man, you've been driving Jody like slave or what?"

"No," Jody's voice came. She was standing right on the steps, and Dean wondered how long she'd been there. "But Sam's definition of home cooking is macaroni and cheese every night, and I took pity on him."

Dean grinned and shook his head. "I'm telling ya, kid couldn't last two days on his own."

Sam rolled his eyes, but it was in good humor.

Dean got out of the car and Sam helped Cas.

"It's good to finally meet you," Cas said to Jody, sticking his hand out. Jody took it and grinned.

"So. You're the angel I keep hearing about, huh?"

"Well. I'm not technically an angel, not anymore. But I have heard a lot about you."

"You have?" Jody's eyes slide to Sam and Dean.

"You're 'good people'. Thank you for looking after Claire."

Jody blushed a little. Dean could empathize with her a little. Having an angel thank you was a unique experience.

"She's not so bad," Jody said. "Rough around the edges, but she's got a good heart."

"Incredibly good."

Dean coughed. "Well. Not to interrupt this chick-flick, but uh, we've got baby Satan alone in our house and-"

"Right," Sam said. "Okay. Well. Let's go."

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Dean didn't know what he'd been expecting. He knew what Sam had told him, of course. Jack looked to be in his late teens—probably eighteen or nineteen, even. But for some reason, Dean couldn't help but think of Jack with the horns and razor sharp teeth.

He looked like a human.

Angels took vessels. And Cas was his vessel now. But there was always still something _other_ about angels. They walked like they were uncomfortable in their own skin, and once Dean knew what to look for, angels became obvious. Demons wore their meatsuits better, but demons tried to fit in with those around them. Angels rarely bothered.

Still, if Dean didn't know better, he would have thought that Jack was just any other kid.

When they finally walked inside, Dean following Cas slowly and carefully down the staircase the entire time, Jack had been there at the bottom, smiling.

Cas barely had his feet steady and stable before Jack was throwing his arms around Cas's neck.

"Castiel," he said, sighing happily. "I'm glad you're well."

"Hello, Jack."

"Thank you," Jack told him. "For everything."

Cas had gone quiet at that, and Jack untangled himself, then stared at Dean.

"You're Dean," he said.

"Last I checked," Dean said.

Jack grinned at him. His smile was a touch unnerving. It was a little too Norman Bates for Dean's taste, but he was trying—trying so hard—to keep his judgements unbiased.

They sat down for dinner. Jody had made a wonderful chicken soup. The aroma filled the entire bunker.

"So. You have to eat, then?" Dean asked.

"No," Jack said, slurping on the broth. "But I enjoy the taste."

"Now that everyone's home," Sam said, sighing, "we gotta figure out how we're gonna get Mom back."

"Cas, tell them what you were telling me."

Cas went over the situation with everyone. "Of course," he ended, "I have no idea how we're supposed to find the identity of that other universe. I was hoping you'd be able to figure it out, Jack."

Jack spun his spoon around in his bowl. "I'm not even sure how to open a portal, Castiel. Much less a specific one."

"We'll be figure it out."

"How are you so sure?"

"Because," Cas said, eyes looking between Sam and Dean. "If my time on Earth has taught me anything, it's that the Winchesters have a way of defying the natural order."

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"So," Sam said, coughing, arms elbow deep in warm, soapy water of the sink. "You and Cas figure it out yet?"

"Jesus, Sam," Dean said. "Jump right into it, why don't ya?"

"I mean, I have had to watch the gross eye sex for years now. If anything, you should be apologizing to me for putting me through that."

"Well, if it's details you want—"

Sam's hands came out of the water and he pressed them against his ears. "God no! Dean, I love you and Cas. But there are some things I don't need to know."

Dean rolled his eyes playfully. "Relax, you prude. We're not—we're good."

"Good," Sam said. "Glad you finally got your shit together."

" _I_ got _my_ shit together?"

"Yeah. I mean, if it's a match of who's more stubborn, Cas has got you beat, you gotta admit that. He's got a couple years of practice."

"A couple," Dean snorted.

Sam grinned. "This is a good thing, Dean. I'm happy for you."

Dean remembered a conversation with Sam, a little more than a year ago now. _Settling down with a hunter? Someone who knows the life?_

Dean never really thought he'd get anything like this. He tried the apple pie life once—and to his surprise, it wasn't that the life was unattainable. He just wasn't happy. He had dreamed for years what it would be like to have a normal life. A wife, maybe a kid or two, and a dog, and mortgage.

It had been boring. Redundant. Going to sleep in the same bed night after night after night lost its appeal quickly. And Dean—he had loved Lisa and Ben. But he wasn't in love with them.

Even settling down with a hunter, like Sam suggested, hadn't seemed plausible. Cesar had explained it pretty well. Twice the worry about getting ganked.

But this was different. This was Cas. He'd been the biggest constant in Dean's life, other than Sam. He'd known Cas longer than most of his friends lasted. And of course Cas hadn't been spared from the Winchester curse. He'd been hurt, over and over; died, even, more than once.

But he always came back.

And he was here now. Just in the other room. And everyone knew about them, and no one was looking at them with scrutiny in their eyes, with hatred. Not like that motel lady in Washington. Not like how the principal looked at Dean, that one time in high school, when he and a boy named Zack got caught making out in the janitor's closet.

No judgement. No hatred. No disgust. Just acceptance and joy.

"It's been a long day for you," Sam said, drying his hands and draining the sink. "Why don't you head to bed?"

Dean grimaced. "I need a shower first," he said. He only just now realized how disgusting he was. He was covered in sweat. Besides, he had become a bit spoiled with the bunker's water pressure. Forced to rely on motels, he hadn't had a decent shower in a while.

Dean stood up.

"Hey," Sam said.

"Yeah?"

"If Jack can't open the portal, Mom will find her way back to us."

Dean scoffed. "How?"

Sam shrugged. "I don't know. I can't explain it. But, it's something in my heart. I can't shake it. Wherever Mom is, whatever's going on, she's okay. And she's fighting her way to get back to us."

Dean had only been in that other World for five minutes, but he didn't need to stay longer than that to understand what sort of World it was. There had been _nothing_. Mom was a fighter. She was kickass. But even the best hunters screwed up and got themselves killed. Or just found themselves outnumbered and out gunned.

But Sam had always been that way. Always found a way to have faith in the impossible. Dean envied that about Sam. He wanted to believe that Mom was okay, but it was hard.

"Trust me, Dean."

Dean sighed. "Good night, Sam."

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The bunker showers didn't just have amazing water pressure. They were also very large. Dean stood with Cas under the spray, head tilted back, letting the water sluice over his face. The water felt like needles on his skin, and strangely, it felt nice.

"I told you Jack was good," Cas said, voice echoing in the shower.

"Yeah, yeah. Look, he's decent, okay? I'll give you that. Doesn't seem like the want to blow the planet to smithereens type. Still, I've got my eye on him."

"I wouldn't expect anything less."

"Who taught you sarcasm? I need to kick their ass." Dean opened his eyes. Cas's hair was plastered to his face. It needed to be cut. So many mundane human things to think about now.

"It's good to be home," Cas said. Dean still couldn't believe he got this. Hearing Cas call the bunker home—

"Yeah," Dean said. His muscles relaxed under the hot water.

"We will find your mother," Cas said, reaching out and putting his hand on Dean's shoulder, right where the scar used to be. Time had caused it to fade and pale; plus, being healed by Cas several times throughout the years had made it virtually invisible. But when Cas put his hand over the scar, it was like a jolt went down Dean's spine.

Dean looked deep in Cas's eye. That ocean blue that had captivated him from their first meeting. Cas believed every word he was saying. Dean wished he could be that sure of himself.

"She's okay," Cas said.

Dean scoffed. "Yeah? How do you know?"

"She's a Winchester," Cas said, like the answer was obvious. "And I know that wherever she is, whatever she's facing, she is fighting her hardest to come back to you and Sam."

Dean's eyes burned. He was thankful for the shower water, hoping it would cloak his teary eyes. "You promise?"

"I promise," Cas said, then he stepped forward and pressed his lips gently against Dean's.


	25. Chapter 25

_AN: Don't hate me, pretty please?_

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 _Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one's life for his friends_

-John 15:13

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Mary explained everything. How she was raised as a hunter. How she made a deal to save her beloved, selling her son for John Winchester; dying, going to Heaven, only to be snatched away and put back on Earth.

"I didn't understand why I'd been brought back," Mary told Gabriel. "I mean, I was in Heaven. I was happy. And I went to bed with my baby boys, and I woke up walking in a forest, hearing someone that wasn't one of my boys calling me Mom." Mary smiled bitterly.

"I'm not perfect. I—I don't think I explained myself well enough, at times. I had to leave for a little bit. I didn't want to abandon Sam and Dean—but they weren't my Sam and Dean. Not then at least. They were grown men. Haggard, war-worn. They had lived the very life I wanted to keep them out of.

"But they're good, strong men. Heroes. They'd even made friends with an angel. Castiel. He was part of their family and—" Mary swallowed thickly. "And I couldn't help but come to love him too."

Sometimes she still had nightmares of that horrible, horrible night at Ramiel's house. The way Castiel, injured, in pain, dying, looked at all of them and said, "I love you. I love all of you."

She remembered later, when her ruse with the British Men of Letters came undone. How Dean had looked at her with disgust.

"Cas almost died."

It hurt even more to remember it now.

"Was?" Gabriel prompted.

"Hm?" Mary asked.

"You said 'He was part of their family'."

Mary swallowed. "He died. Lucifer killed him."

Gabriel was quiet for a moment. "I'm sorry," he said. Gabriel chewed on his lip. His eyes were downcast. "I think I do know him."

Mary looked at him, but he wouldn't meet her eyes. "Yeah. Yeah. It's coming back to me now. Castiel. He died a long, long time ago. In the first fight with Lucifer. He was one of the first to stand up to Lucifer and—and he died trying to defend humanity."

Mary inhaled. The sandy air hurt her lungs.

"I need to get back to them. They need me."

"And you think I can help you?"

"I know you can. You're an archangel. If anyone can help me, it's you."

"So you can get back and babysit Lucifer's baby?"

Mary snorted. "Please, Gabriel."

Gabriel sighed and rubbed his face with his hands. His brow was furrowed in deep consternation.

"Dimension hopping isn't that easy. I don't even know what dimension you're from. I kind of need to know that to send you there."

"I'll help you in whatever way I can," Mary said, too eager for her own liking. She was sure she reeked of desperation, but she couldn't afford to hang onto her pride.

Gabriel sighed. "I need to know everything about your universe. All the history. Anything you can tell me that'll help me sift through the literal infinite number of universes it could be."

"Yes," Mary said. "Anything!"

Mary spent a long time going over the history of her World. She really hadn't had proper time to learn the facts from after Amara brought her back to life. Sam and Dean tried to catch her up, but there was just too much.

"The Union won the American Civil War. Hitler lost World War Two," she said. "He shot himself. President John F. Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas, Texas. The current president is Jefferson Rooney."

Gabriel listened without interruption. His eyes were focused, up in the corner, concentrated on every word Mary spoke.

"I married Johnathon Winchester in 1972. Our first son, Dean, was born January 24, 1979. Sam was born May 2, 1983."

Mary licked her lips, recalling each of those dates. She couldn't believe how stupid she had been. The day Sam was born, Mary had a countdown in her head. Her ten years were nearly up, and whatever it was that Azazel wanted, he would get.

But then Sam took his first breath, filled the room with his cry; and John was looking at her, so brightly, holding her hand so tightly, she forgot all about it. The nurse put Sam on her chest and Mary was in love.

"I need more," Gabriel said. "I've it got narrowed to one thousand possible universes."

Mary's heart dropped into her stomach. "One thousand?"

"Hey," Gabriel scoffed. "It was over a million just a few minutes ago. We're making progress. Come on. We don't have much time. The Dynamic Duo's gonna find us sooner or later. I don't care how mundane it might seem, tell me everything."

Mary had to focus hard on everything she could remember from the present time period. She spent so much time hunting with the Brits, she didn't time to acclimate to the new environment.

"Um. There's someone called Taylor Swift. She's a singer, I think. Dean likes her." What else had she heard Dean and Sam talk about? Or even Ketch?

"Sam and Dean like a TV show called _Games of Thrones_. It's pretty popular. Sam went to Stanford, actually. Full scholarship. He was going to go to law school when—" Mary's throat tightened, recalling the story Dean told her one night, soon after she had initially returned. "When he got pulled back into the hunting life."

Gabriel nodded. "Getting closer. Come on."

Mary gritted her teeth, frustration sinking in. She didn't know what else to tell Gabriel. She didn't know anything. She was so close, so, so close, but still too far away. It was within her grasp, but just barely out of reach.

"Shit," Gabriel said, looking over his shoulder. His face paled. "Mary, come on. You gotta think faster. They're looking for us right now, and they've almost found us."

Bobby groaned. Mary looked at him. Bobby pushed himself onto his elbows and spat a mouthful of dirt out. "Mother—" he said, voice hoarse.

"Keep it down, gramps," Gabriel snapped. "We might have to move again."

"Gramps? Who the hell do you think you're talking to?" Mary was relieved to hear the grouchiness in Bobby's voice. He sounded like himself. Bobby groaned again, arms shaking, struggling to support his weight. "Son of a bitch."

"You can't move him," Mary said.

"You want me to leave him here and be Lucifer meat?"

"He's too hurt to move."

Gabriel snorted. "His chance of survival is higher with us than staying here."

"Mary," Bobby coughed. "I'm fine. Trust me. I've been way worse. That really the best Lucifer can do, huh? I think I've gotten bigger beatings from ten year old girls."

"I worked with the British Men of Letters," Mary said, pulling at straws at this point, bordering on hysteria. Because she was sure there was a universe where she made better choices. A universe where she didn't team up with her son's torturers. A universe where she didn't lie to her boys about it. "We were trying to rid the World of monsters."

"Okay. Okay. It's a long shot, but I think I've got it."

"What if you're wrong?"

"Then you better hope there's another Gabriel in the next universe that's as willing to help you as I was." Gabriel swallowed. "Even then, it's not that easy. The portal was closed with a blood spell. It can only be opened with another blood spell."

Mary's mouth dried. "What?"

Bobby rose to his feet. His knees were wobbly, and he grunted as he limped next to Mary. He put his hand on her arm. When Mary met his eyes, her heart dropped into her stomach.

"No," she whispered.

"Look. This World is screwed to Hell. There ain't hope for us. But there is for you, in your World."

"Bobby, no. No. I won't ask this of you. You've already done so much for me."

She wouldn't have made it this far without Bobby. She would have died soon as she tripped into this strange land if Bobby hadn't been there, ready with his banishing sigil. She would have dehydrated within hours. Bobby saved her life.

"No," Mary snapped. She ripped her arm out of Bobby's grip. "You are not doing this for me. You can come with me. Come with me. Come to my World."

Bobby smiled softly. It brightened up his eyes. "I can't. This is my World. It's a shithole, but it's my shithole and I can't just leave it. This World. . . There's no hope for this World. But there is hope for yours. And I'm going to do my damndest to save your World—by sending you back there. You don't get to tell me what I can and can't do."

Bobby pulled his angel blade out of his belt loop. "Go be a hero," he said.

It happened so fast. There was a sound like a sonic boom. Two bright flashes came across the sky.

"Now!" Gabriel screamed. His voice took on a static edge, ringing in Mary's ears, making her teeth hurt.

Bobby plunged the knife into his gut.

"No!"

He fell to his knees and tipped over. Two strong hands grabbed Mary's shoulders and she was thrown to the side. Then, she was caught in a tornado. She was twisted every direction, upside down and sideways. There was yellow everywhere.

The next thing she knew, she hit the ground, hard, and everything went black.

.

.

.

The rift was still open, crackling with static. It was a sickly yellow color. Gabriel's stomach twisted at the sight. Bobby's body was sprawled out on the ground in front of it, blood staining the dirt.

"You moron," Gabriel muttered.

He heard two sets of wings flap behind him. Gabriel inhaled, already regretting his decision to help.

"Hey, guys," Gabriel said, spinning around and flashing a false smile. "How's it hanging?"

His Lucifer stepped forward, scowling at the rift. "What did you do?"

"Just restored the natural order a bit."

"You idiot!" the strange Lucifer spat, eyes glowing red. His horns peeked out just enough from the crown of hair to be visible. "You let her get away!"

Gabriel swallowed and back up, stepping over Bobby's body. "Look, it's nothing personal. I just don't want to be involved in any murdering."

Lucifer snorted. "That's rich coming from you. Don't pretend to be so virtuous. You're a heathen."

"That may be," Gabriel said, heart hammering in his chest. "But that doesn't make me a murderer. You and Mikey have had your little pissing contest, and look what's happened! Who's the winner? Huh? The way I see it, you've both lost and all you've succeeded in is dicking over everything! And guess what? Dad still hasn't come back! Don't you see? Dad is _never_ coming back. This isn't a competition for his love. It's a dick swinging contest between you and Michael, but the catch is—and neither of you have realized it—you're both castrated!"

"Watch your mouth, brother," Lucifer snarled, fangs poking out from his gums. "What would you know about Dad? As I recall, you left Heaven."

"Because of you," Gabriel hissed. "Because of the fighting. I was sick of it."

"And yet here you are. You couldn't escape it then. You can't escape it now. Don't you get it? This is how it was supposed to be, brother. This is our destiny. This is your destiny."

"No," Gabriel said, swallowing. "It didn't have to be like this. It could've been different—it could've been way different. But you've got your head shoved so far up your ass, you couldn't see it. Daddy brought the new baby home and you couldn't handle it—you think you're so tough, but this—" Gabriel gestured to everything around him. All the death, destruction. "This is nothing more than a temper tantrum, and you're nothing more than a spoiled brat!"

Now his Lucifer's eyes glowed red, cutting through the sandy air. Lucifer growled, wings arching to the sides.

But in an instant, his eyes and mouth were shining. His wings fell down, and his body fell limp, sliding to the ground where he crumpled in a heap.

Gabriel stared at it for several seconds before he was able to process what had happened. Slowly, he looked up to the strange Lucifer, who was grinning, holding a bloodied angel blade.

"Whew," he said, wiping his forehead. "No offense, but you guys were kind of going in circles in there." He shrugged. "Sorry." He stepped over the corpse. "Now, I'd love to kill you again, but," the strange Lucifer smacked his lips. "My ride's almost gone, and anyway, I think killing you at this point would be merciful."

"No," Gabriel said, as the strange Lucifer walked past him, towards the rift. If he went through it, then Mary would be endangered again. All Gabriel's work would have been for nothing.

Gabriel drew his sword.

The strange Lucifer scoffed. "Is that supposed to intimidate me?"

"Fight me like a soldier," Gabriel said. "An honorable warrior never backs down from a challenge."

The strange Lucifer rolled his eyes. He flicked his wrist and Gabriel was thrown backwards. He tried to catch air with his wings and slow his fall, but it did nothing. He slammed into the ground, teeth chattering inside his skull. His vision was blurry, spotted, but he watched helplessly as the strange Lucifer stepped over Bobby's corpse and entered the rift.

Gabriel pushed himself to his hands and knees, slipping his blade back into the ether, but the rift closed, and there was nothing before Gabriel but empty air.


	26. Chapter 26

_It's not all that unusual_

 _When everything is beautiful_

 _It's just another ordinary miracle today_

-Sarah McLachlan, "Ordinary Miracles"

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

"Look at it," Cas explained to Jack, leaning over the table. In front of them was a rotted apple, something that had been sitting at the back of the fridge for who knows how long. It was wrinkled and soft, definitely moldy, and it smelled disgusting. Dean had been about to toss it in the trash when Cas snatched it out of his hand, claiming it would be good practice for Jack. "Focus all your attention on it."

Jack studied the apple with the same level of intensity Cas studied everything: like his life depended on it.

"Now touch it," Cas instructed. Jack reached out and pressed one finger against the apple.

"You can feel the cells in it, and the cells that were once a part of it, can't you?"

Jack nodded. "They're hot."

"You need to bring all those cells together. Imagine them moving. Envision homeostasis. Revert it back to its original form."

Jack closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Dean watched, on the edge of his seat, but he was more latched onto Cas's words than what Jack was doing. He had never really given thought to Cas's mojo before. Cas would just touch him, and boom, he'd be healed of whatever injuries he had sustained: concussions, broken bones, hangovers. But he had never thought about the process of the healing mojo. It seemed as natural as Dean's heartbeat. He didn't think there was any thought to it. No complications.

Dean watched Cas watch Jack.

"Relax," Cas said. "Healing is more difficult than destruction. Call the cells together."

Jack's face flushed. Soon, he was almost as red as the apple in front of him. Sweat began to bead on his forehead, and his breathing was notably swallower, panting in short, raspy gasps.

The apple exploded, chucks flying in every direction. The three of them were hit right in the face with the juices and mush. Dean tensed, shivering in disgust as rotten apple slide down his face. Cas and Jack fared no better. Cas had it all stuck in his hair. Jack had a large chunk stuck to his cheek.

"Sorry," Jack muttered.

"It's fine," Dean said, wiping his face with his sleeve. "That's why we're starting with fruit."

"You'll get it," Cas said. "It'll take practice." Cas reached up and picked the chunks out of his hair. "Do we have anything with we can try again?"

Dean stood up. "I'll find something. Hang tight."

Sam and Jody were in the kitchen, leafing through books, laptops out in front of them. They looked up as Dean walked into the room and straight towards the sink. Sam smirked.

"New look?"

"Shut up." Dean flipped him off. He washed his hands and splashed water on his face. "We got anything else for the kid to blow up?"

"Probably."

Dean opened the fridge and recoiled with the stench. "Jesus, Sam, it's called cleaning this thing out."

"I told him," Jody said. "He's probably got an entire new species in there."

"Come on," Sam said. "It's not that bad."

Dean pulled out a hard, black slab wrapped in plastic. "Was that. . . cheese?"

Sam grimaced and Dean threw the mystery block in the garbage. "Whatever, man." Dean said. He felt like he needed a shower just after touching the thing. And a tetanus shot. Dean looked in the fridge again and found two more rotted apples. He grabbed both.

"Anything?" Dean asked them, leaning over Jody's shoulders to see her laptop. She was on a site filled with a variety of different ancient dialects. Dean could only recognize some Latin and Greek—others were as well as nonsensical to him.

"Nothing yet," Jody said, sadly.

"Are you sure you're okay here, Jody? I mean, don't you have to get home? Back to Alex and Claire?"

Jody smiled. She reached behind her and gently touched Dean's cheek. "I'm checking in with them every, don't worry. They're big girls, they can handle themselves."

"They're teenage girls," Dean said. "You might not have a house to return to. I mean, two teenagers, alone, for days on end."

"Claire and Alex aren't popular enough to host any parties."

"Damn," Sam and Dean said together.

"What?" Jody said, actually offended. She shrugged. "It's true. And I marked all the liquor, I know if they touched that. But they're good kids. They won't do anything too stupid. You guys need me here, so here I am."

"We really appreciate it," Sam said, smiling.

"Well, I'll leave you kids to your work."

Dean walked back into the library room. Cas was sitting down beside Jack now, heads close. They were whispering, but Dean couldn't make out their words. He stood off to the side for a bit and watched the scene.

Jack wasn't anything like Dean thought he'd be. He looked like a teenager, but spoke like a toddler. It was hard to remember that this was Lucifer's son. Lucifer, who was bold and brash and obnoxious. Jack wasn't anything like that. Despite how he looked, Jack was essentially a baby.

But he still had the ability to destroy the entire Earth. And that wasn't something any of them could take lightly. Jack had killed animals already. Killing people wouldn't be any more difficult. Especially with Cas's words echoing in his head. Healing was more difficult than destruction.

Dean cleared his throat, interrupting whatever conversation Cas and Jack were having. They turned to look at him.

"Found two more." He walked to the table and put both apples on top.

"Focus," Cas instructed. "Visualize what you want to happen. Imagine the apple whole and healthy."

Jack inhaled deeply and touched one of the apples. His forehead wrinkled. He was concentrating as hard as he could.

His fingertips glowed lightly, that iridescent bright blue Dean had seen before from Cas so many times. It enveloped the apple. And then the light slowly faded away, and the apple on the table was fresh and whole.

Jack looked at Cas and smiled, so wide, so pure, and Cas returned it gently. It hurt Dean's heart to see. He could count on one hand the number of times he'd seen Cas smile that like, and he'd still have fingers left over. Cas really did believe in Jack.

And Dean realized he was being unfair, but it was hard not to, not when there was so much resentment coiled up in his heart. If it weren't for Jack, Cas wouldn't have run off to Washington. They wouldn't have had to follow him. They wouldn't have been vulnerable to Lucifer. Cas wouldn't have almost died, and Mom wouldn't have tripped into the bizarro World.

Dean swallowed thickly.

"Try again," Cas said, pointing to the other apple. Jack touched this one more confidently, and the process was quicker this time. Just a few seconds and the apple looked ripe enough to eat.

"Feel it?" Cas asked, touching Jack's hand. "In your fingers?"

Jack nodded, staring at his fingers like he was seeing them for the first time. "That is different. Not like the other times."

"Keep focusing on this feeling, and you can do incredible things."

Dean bit his lip and resisted rolling his eyes. Neither Cas nor Jack were looking at him, but he fought the urge anyway. He didn't want to fight with Cas. Not about this. Not again.

Cas had faith in Jack. Dean had faith in Cas. But it was hard to pass on that faith to Jack.

But Jack was smiling wide and innocent, like a child. It tugged at Dean's heart in a multitude of ways.

Jack looked at Dean with so much sincerity it hurt. "I'm not like Lucifer, Dean. I promise."

"Okay," Dean said.

"I am."

Dean sighed and walked away, towards his room.

"Are you all right, Dean?" Cas asked.

"Fine," Dean said, pausing in the doorway that led towards the bedrooms. "I just need to be alone for a bit."

Cas paused for a bit. "Okay," he said.

Dean walked to his bedroom. He closed the door softly behind him. His room was in need of a good dusting and vacuuming. The sheets probably needed a wash, too. But Dean couldn't be bothered with any of that right now. He just wanted to sleep. Well, he actually wanted to get blackout drunk, but he wasn't in the mood for the lecture he'd get from Sam, Cas, and Jody if he did that.

Dean collapsed face first onto his bed, spread eagle, his body sinking into the memory foam. It felt strange not to have Cas beside him. He had spent years sleeping alone in a bed, and yet got used to having Cas beside him instantly.

Cas was going to be okay. It was a weight off Dean's mind and heart to know that, that he didn't have to spend anxiety over if Cas was ever going to be okay or not. But now he could only spend that anxiety on whether or not his mom was okay. If she was even alive.

Dean inhaled, the musty air burning his lungs. It brought Dean back to that other World and he had to sit up, coughing, eyes watering. He slammed his fist against the headboard. The guns rattled above his wall. Dean sighed and fell back against his pillows, dust flying up into the air.

There was a quiet knock on his door.

Dean groaned. "What?" he snapped.

The door opened slowly. "Dean?" Cas's voice came in.

"Where's the Wunderkind?" Dean muttered.

"He's with Sam in the kitchen." Cas walked over and sat down on the edge of the bed. Cas's fingers twitched, slowly curling into a fist. Dean watched as Cas slowly uncurled his fist, one finger at a time. Cas reached behind him and brushed his fingertips over Dean's forehead. "I wish I could take your pain away."

"Cas, stop that." Dean swatted gently at Cas's hand.

"This level of stress isn't healthy for your heart. Or your psyche."

Dean snorted. "You could say that again." God, why did this shit always have to happen to him? His family? He wasn't _that_ bad a guy, was he? Maybe he didn't do good things all the time, but he was a good person, wasn't he?

But, Dean knew deep down he wasn't. It wasn't bad enough he had picked up the knife all those years ago in Hell. He had to _like_ it. Enjoy it.

Dean thought back over all the years since Cas took him out of Hell. Cas too him out of Hell, but it still ran hot and thick in his veins. All those demons he'd taken out since, Gadreel, those men Claire was living with, the Stynes. . .

He picked up the knife and he never put it down.

Cas's hand came back, slowly and cautiously, and he began to pet Dean's hair.

"This stress isn't healthy," Cas said, pressing a kiss to Dean's temple.

Dean tried to relax under Cas's gentle ministrations. It did feel nice. But it didn't stop the buzzing under his skin.

"My mom's dead, isn't she?"

"No," Cas said. "Wherever she is, she's alive."

Dean couldn't fight back the tears anymore.

"I've told you," Cas continued. "She's a Winchester."

"That doesn't get you very far, Cas," Dean said, fighting to catch his breath.

"It gets you further than it's gotten anyone else."

Dean snorted.

"It does," Cas said. "No one has managed to fight against the fate God ordained from them as hard, and as successfully, as your family."

Cas's fingertips brushed away the tears. Dean could feel the warmth of Cas's finger pads on his skin. He inhaled shakily.

"Wherever your mother is," Cas whispered, "she is kicking ass."

.

.

.

Everything hurt. The sun was shining too bright. The birds were too loud. It took Mary a long time to realize these things existed. The sun. Birds.

She opened her eyes slowly. Blotches of color infiltrated her vision, dancing around, until her eyes finally adjusted. Her mouth tasted like blood. She pushed herself into a sitting position, instantly getting dizzy.

She grabbed onto her head with her hands, pushing her nails down into her scalp, give her some sort of distraction from the vertigo. She sat there for several minutes, swallowing air. Finally, after what felt like forever, her eyes adjusted enough.

She didn't recognize where she was. It looked like the middle of a forest. Tall trees were everywhere, the sunlight sneaking in through the canopy of leaves. Birds were chirping, squirrels chattering. Mary poked at a scab on her lip with her tongue.

She took a tentative step forward. She limped, wincing. She pulled down her pants just enough to see the giant bruise on her hip that reached all the way down her femur, towards her knee.

"Son of a bitch," Mary hissed, her voice echoing.

She didn't even know if she was really back in her World or not. Maybe Gabriel sent her into one of the millions of other universes that apparently existed.

Maybe Bobby's death was in vain.

Mary bit on her lip and broke the scab. Blood dripped down her chin, onto the ground. She began to walk, slowly, painfully, taking it one step at a time because she had no other choice. Her bad leg was practically useless, nothing more than heavy stump that could support no weight. Years of hunter training instilled made her to weary to call out for help, unsure of what might be around her, friend or foe.

It seemed like forever, but soon she heard the distinct sound of a roadway. She came out of the woods to a small, one lane road. It didn't even have any lanes painted on it. Mary, panting, looked for anything that might give her a sense of location, but there was nothing. No road signs. Not even one for speed limit.

Her legs buckled out from underneath her, and she fell right by the road, scraping her hands. She laid down. The need to close her eyes was intense. Everything hurt.

"Just a few minutes," she whispered to herself, mouth still tasting of blood. "Just a few minutes, Mary, and then we start walking again."

The next thing she knew, there was a woman and a little girl standing above her.

"Are you okay, miss?" the little girl said in a thick New England accent.

"Hold on," the mother said, cell phone pressed to her ear. "I've got an ambulance coming. Just hold still."

Mary swallowed. The little girl was kneeling by her, staring curiously. She had a well-loved teddy bear clutched to her chest. She looked like Dean. Green eyes, freckles painted across her nose and cheeks.

"Here you go," the girl said, putting the bear on Mary's chest. "Mr. Buttons will take good care of you."

"He will?" Mary mumbled.

The girl nodded and showed a checkerboard smile, little dots of missing teeth. "He keeps the monsters away."

Despite herself, Mary reached up and clutched at the bear.

The mother put a strong, steady hand on Mary's shoulder. "Don't worry. We're gonna be right here with you."

"Where am I?" Mary managed to get out.

"Just outside Pittsburg. What happened?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Mary muttered.

The mother scoffed. "Hey. Don't close your eyes. Stay awake. The ambulance is on its way."

Mary could hear the siren somewhere in the distance, inching closer and closer, slowly but surely.

.

.

.

The next thing Mary knew, she was surrounded by white. There was beeping everywhere.

"Well," a man said. Mary turned towards the sound of his voice. "Your injuries, though painful, are superficial, ma'am. No broken bones, no internal injuries. Serious bruising, a sprained ankle, but that's it. Can you tell me your name?"

"Mary." Her voice was hoarse.

"Mary, I'm going to let you rest for a little bit, and then we'll see about getting you home. Sounds good?"

"Terrific." Mary wasn't sure if she passed along the sarcasm well enough. She wasn't sure if home was a possibility yet.

"I'll let you rest," the doctor said, patting her knee, and then he left.

There was a little TV remote on the nightstand. Mary reached forward, the IV in her hand stinging, and grabbed it. She turned on the TV. The news indicated it was the year 2017, and the date was just a few weeks from when she stepped through the first portal. That was a good sign, right? It had been hard to keep track of time in the other World.

The anchors went on and on. Stock market, weather. Some lady came on and demonstrated how to throw the best Memorial Day barbeque possible.

This was what she fought to protect. She hunted monsters so people could have their stupid little parties, get drunk and set off fireworks, and enjoy gossip over burgers and hot dogs.

Mary couldn't see a phone anywhere. Part of her was terrified to try and call either Dean or Sam. Afraid there wouldn't be answer.

But she had to do it. Rip the band-aide off.

Just after she got discharged.


	27. Chapter 27

_It is our choices that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities._

 _-_ J.K. Rowling

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

"We still got one Prince of Hell to kill," Dean said. "And I'm guessing it's not gonna be a cake walk."

"Asmodeus is the most. . . reclusive of the princes," Cas said. "Truthfully, I don't know much about him. We thought he died eons ago. But he can be killed."

"No Colt, no giant magical poison shaft—"

"It was a Lance, Dean."

"I know what I said!"

"Dean, there's a lady here," Sam chastised. Beside him, Jody huffed in offense.

"Excuse you," she said. "I am a hunter, a sheriff, and a mother to two teenage girls. I live my life bombarded with dick jokes."

"Yeah, Sam, get your sexist shit out of here."

Sam bitchfaced and Cas rolled his eyes.

"Focus," Cas snapped.

Jack fiddled with a button on his jacket. Dean sighed.

"Look," Dean said, gesturing to Jack. "Can he kill Asmodeus?"

"Technically, yes."

"Technically?"

"Jack possesses the power to kill Asmodeus. However, the question remains whether he has the control to kill _just_ Asmodeus and not bring everything within a ten mile radius down with him."

"Sorry," Jack said, but he didn't seem to paying attention.

Dean licked his lips. "It's fine. We'll figure it out." He rubbed his face. "If Moe stays in his domain, it's not a problem. Right? He stays in Hell, we leave him alone."

"Except he's not going to stay in Hell," Sam said. "He's been after Jack from the get-go. And he's not going to stop until he either has Jack, or Jack is dead."

"Well, then, guess Rosemary's baby is gonna have to get demon-smiting."

"Kelly," Jack said. He pulled the button off from his jacket.

"Huh?"

"My mother's name was Kelly."

Silence covered the room. Cas glared at Dean.

"Right," Dean coughed. "Sorry."

Cas put his hand on Dean's knee and squeezed it gently. Dean rested his elbows on the table.

"Okay, then," Sam said. "So getting Moe out of the way is essential."

"Isn't it just going to create more problems?" Jody asked. "Hell needs a king, doesn't it? Or some kind of ruler? Killing Moe just means some other sucker is gonna step up to the plate."

"True," Cas said, "but that other 'sucker' is going to have to be a lower-tier demon. It would be preferable that Hell is run by someone of a lesser caliber."

"Crowley ran it for years, and it seemed to go smooth as butter," Dean said.

Cas rolled his eyes.

"Crowley was smart," Sam said. "You gotta give him that. I mean, he played the game. Thought ten steps ahead of everybody. Can't really trust anyone else to be that smart. A stupid ruler is ten times more dangerous than a smart one."

"You know, why do we even care?" Dean slammed his hands on the table. "It's Hell! Who cares how it's run, or who sits on the throne? I don't!"

"You should," Cas said. "Balance is needed between Heaven, Earth, and Hell. If one goes sideways, the others will follow."

"That sounds made up." Dean squinted his eyes and stared at Cas. Cas returned the gesture.

"Ugh," Sam said. "Seriously guys? Common courtesy."

"Fuck off," Dean said.

"Yeah, fuck off," Jack said.

Cas, Sam, and Jody glared at Dean.

"What?"

"You're a bad influence," Sam said.

"And this is surprising anyone how?"

"Dean, stop deflecting," Cas said. He turned to Jack. "Are you comfortable killing Asmodeus?"

Jack fiddled with the button between his fingertips. "I don't understand. I thought killing was bad?"

Cas swallowed. "Not always."

"It's okay sometimes?"

"Jack," Dean said, looking him in the eye. Jack's eyes still shined yellow, and it still sent snakes down Dean's spine. He swallowed it down. "There are good people and bad people. We protect the good people from the bad people. Sometimes that means killing the bad people."

Dean needed a drink. It was too earlier to have to justify his own moral code.

"How do you know if they're bad?"

"Jack, you have to trust us," Sam said, far more patient than Dean could manage. "Asmodeus is bad."

But Jack wasn't listening to them. His head was tilted to the side, one ear pointed up towards the sky. His eyes weren't focused—instead they looked vacant, soulless.

"Jack," Cas said, "are you okay?"

"You listening, kid?" Dean snapped.

"My father," Jack said slowly. The focus returned to his eyes. He straightened his head and looked right at them. "He's here."

.

.

.

"What do you mean, 'here'?" Sam asked again. Now Dean felt like he was the one spacing out. Cas inched closer to him, and Dean reached out, winding their hands together.

"This World," Jack said, standing up. He paced around the library, looking up at the ceiling as though he were searching for something.

"What?" Dean barely forced out. Jack was staring at his hand, flexing his fingers. There was a strange, eerie glow at his fingertips, like tiny fireflies.

"I can feel his power," Jack said. "He is. . . not close. Not yet. But he is here."

"And my mom?" Dean asked.

Jack looked at him sadly. "I'm sorry. I don't know."

"If Lucifer is here, your mother must be as well," Cas said, squeezing Dean's hand.

"Or she's dead," Dean said, hysteria setting it. "He killed her and got back here."

"Why won't you believe me?" Cas asked, frowning. "Your mother is alive."

"You don't know everything, Cas," Dean said, voice cracking. "And you would know better than I would how powerful Lucifer is."

"Now as powerful as us, together," Cas said. "That's what you told me, remember? We're better together. And it's not just us, either. We have Jody. Jack. Your mother was the greatest hunter of her generation. Wherever she is, she's alive."

"Cas is right," Sam said. "We can't give up on Mom. She's close. I can feel it."

Lucifer was back, out there in the World. He would come after them, there was no doubt about that. And their only hope of killing him was Jack.

Dean stared at Jack. The fate of the World rested on the shoulders of a demonic Matilda that might not even be on their side. What if Jack met Lucifer and decided to join his team? Without the Colt or Michael's Lance, they had nothing that could hope to make a dent in Lucifer. All the anxiety about Lucifer and Dean still couldn't not think about his mother.

Sam and Cas were convinced about Jack's goodness. Cas was going to die for Jack's goodness. Dean wanted to believe so badly in this kid, this poor kid, just as much of victim of circumstance as they all had been at one point or another—but he couldn't. Because Jack wasn't a kid. Not really. And Dean didn't want to put the fate of the World on someone he couldn't trust.

"What do we do?" Dean mumbled.

"Oh boy," Jody said, tapping her fingers on the tabletop. "Boys, I think I'm a bit out of my league here."

Sam snorted. "Join the club."

"We kill him," Cas said.

Dean scoffed. "Gee, Cas, if only we'd thought of that earlier."

Cas glared at him. He gestured towards Jack.

"Right, right." Dean smacked his lips. "Your baby god. Forgot."

"Do not underestimate me, Dean Winchester," Jack said. The tone of his voice made the hairs on the back of Dean's neck stand up straight. Dean swallowed.

"I don't underestimate your power," Dean said steadily, refusing to let his fear show. "I underestimate your loyalty."

"Loyalty to you?" Jack's eyebrows raised.

"Jack," Cas whispered softly. Jack stepped forward.

"You think the armies of Heaven and the denizens of Hell should follow your every beck and call," Jack continued. "You. A simple man. A Fallen, wicked creature of God. I am not old, Dean Winchester, but even I know better than that. So tell me: why should I be loyal to you?"

Fuck. Fucking fuck. Pissing off the son of Satan, not a smart move. And Dean still couldn't shake the uneasiness he felt every time he made eye contact with Jack. His yellow eyes reeked of his inhumanity.

"Because we're on the right side," Dean said. "Your dad—Satan—wants to destroy everything and everyone."

"And you assume I do as well?"

Dean didn't respond. Jack looked at Cas.

"I saw everything this World has to offer through him." Jack pointed at Cas. "This World is full of pain. Misery at every corner. You humans, you murder one another. You build weapons with the intent to harm and kill. You walk by idly while others die on the street, suffering loudly, but you purposefully ignore it." Jack blinked. "But you are mostly also good. You make art. Music. You love one another. In times of catastrophe, you step up, you help, you save others at the risk of your own life. There is darkness in this World, Dean Winchester. But there is also so much good. My mother spoke to me in the womb, and told me of all the magnificent things this World has to offer. I believe in that World. And no matter whose blood runs through my veins, it is my decision to help or hurt. And I choose to help."

The room went quiet. It felt like the temperature dropped twenty degrees. Goosebumps rose on Dean's skin. He swallowed, and looked away, down at his feet. Shame and fear and anger and hate curdling in his gut, rancid and bubbling, burning at the base of his esophagus. Cas squeezed his hand, but it did nothing to reassure Dean.

Dean's cell phone began to ring. It cut through the silence suddenly and loudly. Everyone jumped, Dean inhaling a sharp take of cold air. It took him several seconds to realize what it was. He fumbled to pull it out of his pocket.

"You should get that," Jack said snidely "It's your mother."

.

.

.

Dean cried.

"It's really you?"

"It's really me." Mary's voice crackled over the speaker phone.

"How?" Sam asked, somehow breathless, face flushed in excitement.

"It's a long story. It's best to explain in person."

Dean couldn't say anything else. He was shaking. Not even Cas's calm hand on his shoulder would ease the tension and anxiety.

"We'll get you," Sam said hastily. "We'll leave right now, get there as fast as we can."

"I'd appreciate that," Mary said. She sounded tired.

"You sure you're okay?" Sam asked.

"All things considered, yes. I'm a little banged up, but I've had worse."

"It's going to take us a while to get to Pennsylvania," Sam said. It took Dean a moment to realize Sam was speaking to him. He nodded and swallowed.

"Yeah." He mapped out Interstate routes in his head. "Kansas to Pennsylvania. Twenty hours, at least."

"We can be there before this time tomorrow," Cas said.

There was a sharp intake of breath over the phone. The static crackled again. "Who was that?"

Dean and Sam turned to Cas. Cas frowned curiously.

"Hello, Mary," he said, leaning closer to the microphone.

"Castiel?" Mary's voice cracked, on the verge of tears.

Oh.

Mary thought Cas was dead. She had to have. She stepped over his body to clock Lucifer in the face, before she fell through the rift. She had spent all that time in the Other World thinking Cas was dead, that Lucifer had killed him; she'd been running from Lucifer all that time.

"Hi," Cas said.

"How?"

Dean cleared his throat. "Winchesters are kind of hard to kill," he said, looking at Cas. Cas smiled shyly at him. Dean looked back to the phone. "Guess we have some explaining of our own to do. We're on our way now, Mom. Lay low, we'll pick you up."

"See you boys soon."

"I love you," Dean blurted out. There was a gentle pause.

"I love you too," Mary said, and then she hung up. The dial tone filled the room.

Sam was shaking. "She's alive," he said in disbelief. "She's really alive. Oh my god." Sam turned to Jody and threw her arms around her. Jody flinched at the sudden surprise, but she soon relaxed and wrapped her arms around Sam.

"Told you it'd be okay," Jody said, patting Sam's back.

"Jody," Dean said, "thank you. For everything."

Jody smiled over Sam's shoulder.

Dean coughed. "Okay, Sam, back it up. You're getting your snot all over Jody's shoulder."

"Sorry," Sam said, wiping his face on his sleeve.

"It's okay," Jody said, smiling.

"You've done so much for us Jody," Dean continued. "But, after we get Mom, we're going to have figure out this Lucifer shit. I don't want to drag you into that."

Jody was impassive. "This is going to be an all-hands on deck situation," she said. "Probably going to be demons going rampant everywhere, right?"

"Probably. Definitely," Dean said.

Jody smacked her lips. "Well then, I guess I'll get back to home base. Get all our hunters rounded up and ready to fight. Again."

"Come on," Sam said. "We took out the Brits. Demons oughta be a piece of cake."

Jody smiled. "You boys call me. I mean it. I don't want to hear on the news somewhere that you idiots got yourselves blown up saving the World."

"No promises," Dean said.

Jody smacked him on the arm. Hard.

"Ow," Dean said, rubbing the affected area. It had actually, really hurt.

"Don't die."

"You too."

Jody sighed. She hugged him. She leaned in and whispered in his ear, "You got a good thing going with him. Don't screw it up."

Dean closed his eyes shut tight. "I don't plan to."


	28. Chapter 28

_You don't have to deserve your mother's love. You have to deserve your father's._

-Robert Frost

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

"Why can't he just teleport us?" Dean asked, cramming the last of the essentials into the Impala's trunk.

"He's not yet in control of his full powers," Cas explained. "He could take us to the wrong location. Some of us might end up in Pennsylvania, with some of us landing in Brazil. Or he could inadvertently kill us all."

"Okay, okay," Dean said. "Old fashioned way it is. It's gonna be a tight fit on the way back, but we'll make it work." He slammed the trunk shut and faced Cas. Sam was with Jack, getting together some last-minute essentials. Namely, road trip snacks. Dean hoped they had something better than trail mix and beef jerky.

"You up for another long drive?"

Cas looked way better than he had even just the other day, but still, there was a tenor of exhaustion in his eyes, and the way he held himself. They wouldn't be able to stop for the night on this trip, unlike when they were coming home from Washington. A twenty-hour car trip was a lot to ask of someone who was still recovering.

"I'm fine," Cas said. "Besides, finding Mary is more important than my comfort."

Dean hesitated to respond. Cas was technically right, but still, he didn't like to admit it.

Just then, Sam and Jack came out. Sam was carrying two plastic bags on his arms, stuffed full of water bottles, soda, and various snacks. Dean could barely see packages of crackers, bags of chips, granola bars, and a half-full jar of peanut butter.

"All right," Sam said, tossing the bag carelessly into the footwell of the backseat. "Let's get going." Cas moved to get in the backseat, but Sam cleared his throat, and touched Cas on the shoulder.

"You know what?" he said. "How 'bout you take the front seat?"

Cas looked at the passenger seat skeptically. "You're sure?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah. I'll sit in the back with Jack." Sam looked at Dean, a shimmer of knowing in his eyes.

Dean mouthed 'thank you' as Cas got into the passenger seat. He made sure Cas didn't see it. Sam just nodded, then climbed into the backseat, Jack following.

Dean sighed. He took one last longing look at the bunker, and then climbed into the driver's seat.

.

.

.

Mary was sitting on a bus stop bench, wearing a hospital gown and her jacket that was filthy.

Dean parked the car, exhausted, but adrenaline starting up again at seeing his Mom. It had been one thing to hear her voice, but now he could see her. She lifted her head at the sound of the Impala's engine and smiled, standing up.

Sam was out of the car before Dean even put the car in park. He rushed towards Mary and hugged her tightly, nearly crushing her with his height. Dean was quick to follow, fumbling to turn the engine off. He didn't even take the keys out of the ignition.

"Mom," he gasped, crying, and then joined in the hug.

Mary was solid. Warm. She smelled like antiseptic and bleach.

"You're okay," he said, voice shaking. "You're alive."

"I'm alive," she said.

Dean didn't know how long they stood there, the three of them. But Mary cleared her throat eventually, and they released. Mary looked past Sam and Dean. Dean followed her gaze. Cas and Jack were waiting by the car. Cas's hands were stuffed into his jacket pockets. The black really suited him.

"Castiel," Mary said, cocking her head. "Come here."

Cas blinked in surprise, but he walked towards them. Mary smiled and then she threw her arms around Cas. She hugged him tightly. She was shaking.

"I'm glad to see you're okay," she whispered.

"You too," Cas said.

The sight was strange and beautiful. His mother hugging Cas. Dean felt like an intruder watching the scene before him, but he couldn't look away. It wasn't until they broke the hug naturally that Dean could focus his attention.

Mary beat him to it, staring at Jack. "Who is that?"

"That is Jack," Cas said. Mary looked at him dubiously. "Kelly's baby."

"That is not a baby," Mary said.

"Hi," Jack said, voice very small. He waved shyly.

"So," Dean said, rubbing his face, trying to contain his joy. He felt like a kid on Christmas morning on steroid. "We actually have a lot to talk about," he said, swallowing. Cas was okay. Mom was okay. Jack was okay.

But things still weren't perfect. Lucifer was out there. Moe too.

Mary looked at Dean with fear in her eyes. Dean gestured to the car.

Mary stuffed herself in the back with Jack and Sam. Dean began to drive while he explained.

"Lucifer? No." Mary shook her head violently. "No. I left him in the Other World."

"No," Jack said. "He's here. I can feel him."

Dean caught Mary's eyes in the rearview mirror. Her pupils were blown. She was shaking.

"What are we going to do?" her voice was barely audible.

"Kill him," Dean said gruffly.

Mary laughed bitterly. "Kill him? How?"

"We'll figure that out," Dean said, pressing harder on the gas.

"This is insane." Mary covered her face with her hands. Jack put a hand on her shoulder. Mary flinched, but she didn't pull away from the contact. She remained rigid, however clearly uncomfortable with it.

"I'll kill him," he said with such innocence Dean rolled his eyes.

"You'll kill him?" Mary didn't keep the snide out of her voice.

Jack nodded. "He is a threat to the World you four have fought so tirelessly to protect. I like this World."

"Well, we should focus on figuring out where Lucifer even is," Sam said. He was tapping away on his phone like a maniac. "I can't find anything. No lightning storms, cattle mutilations, dead crops—nothing. Are you sure Lucifer is here?"

"Absolutely," Jack said.

"He's going to come after me," Mary said. "In that Other World, he kept following after me."

"Well, he's not going to get you without us," Dean said. "We'll figure something out. There has to be something we can do."

"He'll expect a trap," Cas said.

"Yeah? You think he'll be expecting Junior back there to be battin' for us?"

"We better hope not," Sam said. "Jack, you're our only hope to defeating Lucifer once and for all. You sure you're up for it?"

"Jack isn't ready," Cas said. "He can't control his powers!"

"You said destroying was easy," Jack said.

"Destroying everything is easy. Destroying a single, intended target requires practice, concentration-"

"Okay, okay, okay," Dean said, drumming on the steering wheel. "Look, we don't have time to do a Karate Kid montage of training. We gotta get rid of Lucifer ASAP."

Dean looked at Jack in the mirror. He met his eyes. His eerie, yellow eyes. "You sure you're up for this kid?"

"Yes," Jack said seriously.

Dean swallowed. "Okay then." He looked to Cas. "I believe him."

Cas's mouth turned to a thin line. He clearly wasn't happy. But he couldn't argue. Lucifer may not be acting out now, but he was sure to soon—especially if he was looking for Mary. He had to be looking for Dean and Sam too.

Jack settled back into the seat, smiling softly to himself.

"Stull Cemetery," Sam said suddenly.

"What?" Dean turned his ear towards Sam.

"He's gonna go to Stull Cemetery."

"What makes you so sure?"

"I just do," Sam said, swallowing nervously.

Dean chewed on his lip. He looked at Cas. "What do you think?"

"I think we have no other option," Cas said.

"Okay. Stull it is."

Back to the place where he watched his brother nose drive straight into Hell, with Lucifer inside him.

Dean started to shake. Cas put his hand on Dean's shoulder.

"Breathe," Cas instructed. Dean inhaled and exhaled shakily.

The engine of the Impala cut through the air as they raced down the Interstate.

.

.

.

It was night time. The street lights were bright. Dean had the radio on low, just enough to keep him awake. The vibrations shook the car lightly. Jack was the only one still awake. He kept staring at Dean. Dean tried not to think about it. Tried to focus on the black asphalt. Cas, Sam, Mary—they were all asleep, pressed up against the glass of their windows, fogging it all up with their warm breath.

"Dean," Jack whispered.

"What?"

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For your trust. I know that is not an easy thing to earn. It is valuable."

"Yeah?" Dean snorted.

Jack nodded. "Castiel appreciates your trust in him. I saw that in his heart. I will not take it for granted."

Dean's head bobbed with the music. "Thanks," he said, because he didn't know what else to say.

He continued driving. Other than a few eighteen wheelers, he was the only vehicle on the road—the only vehicle in the left lane, driving in a straight line that he almost zoned out entirely, relying only on instincts.

Then the streetlights began to flicker. Dean didn't notice at first. Then, he thought it was just his eyes. He'd been awake for so long, his eyes were fatigued and were probably seeing things.

But then it definitely became noticeable. Lights went out as he drove underneath them, one by one.

And then there was a man in the road.

Dean slammed on the brakes and swerved into the next lane, tires screeching against the asphalt. Cas, Mary, and Sam all woke up—Mary and Sam screaming, Cas too startled to do anything other than hold onto the dashboard for dear life. They skidded for several dozen yards, the smell of burning rubber infiltrating the car, until finally their inertia ended and they stopped in the opposite shoulder of where they started.

Dean was gasping for breath. "Holy shit," he barely got out, flicking on the caution lights. "Is everyone okay?" He turned back over the seat, looking at Sam, Mary, and Jack. Sam did a thumbs-up, though his face was red and hair askew. Mary was ghostly pale, but she nodded. Jack seemed unfazed, sitting straight up still, clothes not even wrinkled.

"Cas?" Dean turned to Cas, put a hand on Cas's shoulder. Cas nodded.

"I'm fine," he said. And he did seem fine. Shaken up like everyone else, but unharmed.

"What the hell happened?" Sam asked.

"There was someone in the road!" Dean said. He looked in the rearview mirror, but the figure was gone. Sam was craning his neck to look out the window. "I swear, Sam. He was right there."

"In the middle of the highway? At night?"

"He came out of nowhere!"

Eighteen wheelers passed by them, blaring their horns.

"Fuck off!" Dean screamed, flipping the bird. "I'm serious," he said, turning his attention back to Sam. "The lights started going out and then he just-"

Something jumped on the hood of the car.

"Showed up," Dean finished slowly. He turned.

Asmodeus was standing on the hood of the car. "We need to talk," he said.


	29. Chapter 29

Demons run when good men go to war

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

"Jack, stay here," Cas said, undoing his seatbelt.

"Hold on, cowboy," Dean said. "You're not going out there by yourself. Mom, you stay here."

"Who's that?" Mary asked.

"Stay here," Dean ordered. He and Cas and Sam all got out of the car.

"Get off," Dean barked. Moe grinned sinisterly and jumped off, scratching up the exterior. Dean clenched his teeth. He looked at Cas.

"You're new," he said, sniffing. "How peculiar."

"Shove it," Dean snapped. "What do you want? You ain't getting the kid."

"We have other matters to attend to, boys," Moe said. "Lucifer—"

"Is back. Yeah. We know," Sam said.

"And what are you going to do about it?"

"We're going to kill him," Sam said, lips curling around his teeth.

"Are you?" Moe laughed. "And how has that worked out for you in the past?"

"We've got something different this time 'round," Dean said.

"The boy? You're putting your faith in the boy?"

"Don't got many other options, far as I can tell."

Moe shook his head. "You fools. You morons! He will betray you for his father."

"He won't," Cas said.

"And what would you know about father-son bonds? Your daddy didn't even want to talk to you."

"Shut up," Dean growled, guilt gnawing at his stomach. What Moe said was true and not true. Still, he wouldn't let Cas be insulted like that.

"He won't kill his father. You're bringing him straight to Lucifer. It's like giving a psychopath a weapon. They will team up together and destroy the planet."

"Well, what are you doing about it?" Sam snapped. "I figure you got a bone to pick with Lucifer too. All things considered."

Moe sneered. "You know nothing about me."

"I know more than you think. I know you used to be an angel. I know Lucifer turned you into this. But you are what you do—not your parentage. Not your experiences. You don't have to be this way. You can help us."

"Help you?"

"Help us kill Lucifer."

Moe shook his head. "You're crazy. Don't you get it? Lucifer cannot be killed. Only God can kill him, and well. He doesn't seem to be much interested in the job."

"Look," Dean snapped. "Help us or don't help us, I don't give a damn. You're not getting the kid."

Moe growled. His eyes flickered and changed to yellow. No matter how many times Dean saw it, it still unnerved him. Still remained the nightmares of his childhood.

"I don't care about you boys. I really don't. I don't know what Crowley saw in you. Why he remained so. . . invested. You're far more trouble than you're worth. An infection that won't run its course. No. You have to remain, going deeper and deeper, making the host sicker and sicker. But see, you're starting to piss me off. Really, killing you is more of getting rid of a nuisance than out of pure animosity Like killing a gnat.."

"You will do no such thing," Cas said, stepping forward.

Moe rolled his eyes. "Oh, how cute. The disabled angel still trying to protect his pets. You should be on my side, brother."

"You're not my brother."

"I'm not?" Moe raised an eyebrow and chuckled. He shrugged. "If you say so. But you've got to admit, Castiel, that thing is an abomination. A violation of the sacred oaths of Heaven."

"Since when do you care about Heaven?"

Moe didn't answer. Cas took another step forward.

"Jack isn't an abomination. Far from it."

"What? He's a 'miracle'?"

"Yes," Cas said with such certainty Dean's bones quaked. "You know as well as I do that he possess power beyond your wildest imaginations."

"He can destroy this World," Moe hissed, teeth peeking out through his gums like a snake's fangs.

"Or he can save it."

Moe sneered. "That line of thinking is going to get you killed, angel."

Cas just shook his head. "I don't think so." He took a step forward. "We have a common goal. We both want Lucifer dead. Help us."

"Help you?" Moe chuckled darkly. "Have you not noticed that, uh, your allies tend to get the shit end of the stick every time. Deader than doornails."

"Have you not noticed that your only chance for survival is to help us?"

Moe chuckled again. "Is that so?"

"Lucifer is in the wind," Cas said, and it sent chills through Dean's bones. Cas sounded like he did years and years ago, back when they first met; when Cas was still a mysterious creature, Dean still unsure if he was friend or foe. And Cas spoke like an Apocalyptic Preacher on the sidewalk, screaming as passersbys, the end is near!

Or, something that hit Dean more in the heart: I pulled you out the Pit, and I can throw you back in.

"You know he's not going to be sympathetic to you," Cas continued, voice still as grave as death. "You're a traitor to him. A thief. A false king, no different than Crowley. He's going to kill you unless we kill him."

Cas and Moe were nearly nose to nose now. Moe was more than a head taller, but somehow, even without his wings, even without his grace, Cas was more than he appeared. Fierce, determined—something to be feared.

Moe cocked his head. "This is asinine," he snarled. "Lucifer cannot be killed. Our good late king destroyed the one weapon that would have had any chance at accomplishing such a deed."

"Everything dies," Cas said. "The Lance was not made to kill Lucifer, but to make him suffer while he died. There are other ways. There has to be other ways. If we don't kill him, he will kill you. And I imagine that you would want to put off your death as long as possible."

Dean looked back to Sam, arching his eyebrows and mouthing 'holy shit'. Dean couldn't remember the last time he heard Cas go all 'Angel of the Lord' on an enemy; how persuasive Cas could actually be. Even without the wings, or powers, he was terrifying, a force to be reckoned with.

And so very, very, hot.

Dean swallowed.

Even better, he could see Moe falling for it. A tick of his jaw, a sneer of his upper lip, curling backwards towards his nose, revealing just the tiniest bit of teeth.

"Jack is not a weapon," Castiel continued, "but he can kill Lucifer. It's fitting, isn't it? For him to be reaped by what he sowed?"

Moe broke eye contact first, looking to Jack in the car.

"I'm not interested in dying, angel," he said.

"You won't. You don't even have to be there for the fight."

Moe snorted.

"Take us to Stull Cemetery in Kansas. Swear to us that you will not come looking for us. You will not harm humanity. Your denizens will not harm humanity."

"Seems to me I ain't getting much out of this deal."

"You can have those who willingly sell their souls. On that we will not interfere."

Dean shared another look with Sam. Sam nodded. It seemed like they finally found something they could all agree on. Some people did sell their souls for noble reasons; but mostly, those who summoned a crossroads demon were selfish, and horrible, and depraved.

Dean felt for those with noble reasons. But there was nothing noble about selling one's soul for another. Dean realized that now. He hadn't done Sam a favor all those years back—he tortured Sam, in this one way; he put his death, and his suffering, and his tenure in Hell, all on Sam..

Besides, they couldn't save everybody. And if this was the compromise they were going to have to make, Dean could live with it.

"Keep yourselves out of my affairs, and I will stay out of yours. Is that the deal?" Moe asked.

"And you stay the hell away from Jack," Cas snarled.

"Fine. It ain't going to matter for long anyhow. He's going to team up with his daddy and kill all of you, and then it won't matter what we kissed on, our deal with be null and void, won't it?"

"Shut up," Cas snapped, and Dean had to avert his eyes as Cas and Moe sealed their deal.

"Gross," he said, looking away, but what he found instead was his mother's horrified face, which wasn't any better.

Cas and Moe broke. Moe chuckled. He grabbed onto Cas's elbow. Dean reached back for his gun. "Well, I guess what they say about you is true. You are a little cooz."

"Shut the fuck up," Dean snapped.

"Dean." Cas's voice was quiet, but full of fury, a warning. Cas ripped his elbow out of Moe's grip.

"Now take us to Stull," Cas snarled. "All of us."

"Well, get everyone over here so we can hold hands and sing Kumbaya."

"You're bringing the car too," Dean said. "No way am I just leaving her on the side of the highway states away.

Moe rolled his eyes, but gestured with his hand. They all got back in the car. Moe stayed on the road, the headlights shining right on him, stark against the black night.

"What's happening?" Jack asked. "Why did you kiss him?"

"Just making a promise," Sam said.

"Oh. You can't break a promise."

"No you can't."

"This is insane," Mary said. "I can't believe you made a deal!"

"We had no other option," Cas said simply. "Besides, the terms were as good as we could have gotten them. We don't have time to waste. The sooner we get to Lucifer, the better."

"Cas is right," Dean said, tapping impatiently on the steering wheel. "No one sold their soul or first born. Leaving him alone is perfectly fine with me, as long as he keeps his terms."

Moe smiled devilishly and put his hands on Baby's hood.

Dean looked to Cas. "I can't believe you let him call you a whore."

Cas sighed insufferably.

Moe moved them.

.

.

.

Dean could never get used to it. Teleportation felt like being trapped inside a tornado. He was spinning, twisting. His stomach felt like it had gone right up into his throat, and his heart dropped down next to his pancreas.

The Impala landed ungracefully onto the hard ground. Dean hit his head on the ceiling. Everyone else hit some body part on some part of the car. They were all groaning—except Jack. He seemed unaffected, impassive even, just sitting in his spot with his hands folded neatly in his lap, a good little school boy.

"We good?" Dean asked, rubbing his head. "Everyone here? In one piece?"

"We're okay," Sam said, out of breath.

Dean got out of the car. His gut twisted.

They were back in Stull Cemetery. The spot that housed one of the worst days of Dean's life, when he had to watch his brother jump into Hell. It seemed to be mocking him with its own inadequacy. It was just a cemetery, and not even a nice one at that. Judging by the dust on the tombstones and the overgrown grass, it no longer had a groundskeeper, instead left abandoned to rot.

The others followed.

Dean rubbed his face, remembering all too well what it was like to have his face broken by Lucifer, in the skin of his brother.

Someone put their hand on his shoulder. Dean turned to see Cas.

"Are you all right?"

Dean bit his lip. "I'll be a lot better when this asshole's dead for good."

Jack stood by Sam and Mary, staring at the gravestones, looking down at the grass that brushed up against his ankles. He really did look like just a kid. Never mind the instant growth spurt. He was baby faced and naïve.

"What if he's not strong enough?" Dean asked. Suddenly it seemed vital. No longer was Dean's primary concern if Jack would remain loyal to them, but rather, was he even capable of doing what they believed? "What if Lucifer kills him?"

Cas turned and looked at them. "Together, we should all be enough."

Dean rubbed his lip. "Okay." He sighed. "If we die, at least we'll all die together, right?"

Cas looked sad. "No one is going to die."

Dean sighed. "Right." He walked towards the trio. If this was hard for him, he couldn't imagine how hard it was for Sam to be back here.

"We ready?" He asked. He looked at Jack specifically. And he felt like the biggest asshole in the World. He understood suddenly what Cas and Sam had seen in this kid. He wondered why it took so long. It wasn't Jack's fault who his father was. What mattered was what he did, what he wanted. And he wanted to be good.

"As ready as we'll ever be," Sam said, shrugging.

"I still got these," Mary said, pulling out of her pockets the Enochian brass knuckles, browned with dried blood. "It'll slow him down, at least. Distract him."

"Normal angel blades won't kill him," Cas said, "but they should still hurt, at least a little."

"We just gotta keep the attention off Jack," Sam said. Dean rolled his eyes.

"Yeah. Like that's going to happen. He's not going to take his eyes off the kid."

"Don't worry about me," Jack said. "I will 'handle' him."

Dean swallowed. "Okay." He clapped his hands. "Well. Who's ready to die?"


	30. Chapter 30

_"How you are fallen from heaven, O Day Star, son of Dawn! How you are cut down to the ground, you who laid the nations low!"_

-Isaiah 14:12

CHAPTER THIRTY

Dean set out several rings of holy fire all through the cemetery.

"You keep the hell away from these things," he told Jack, pouring the liquid out, using up the last of it. It smelled rancid.

It wouldn't hold Lucifer forever, but they didn't need forever. Just a few minutes. A few seconds, even.

And when he was done, when everyone was armed, they had nothing left to dawdle on.

"Hey Lucifer!" Dean screamed to the starry sky. He kicked at the dirt. "Come and get us, you asshole! We're right here, ripe for the taking!"

Jack and Mary stared at Dean concerned. Dean didn't care. Sam joined in too.

"Let's finish this, once and for all!" Sam screamed.

It didn't take long. Lucifer appeared, grinning, his wings flapping so wildly, Dean's hair blew in all directions.

"Hi, boys," he said, waving. "Dean. Good to see you guys. You're looking swell." His eyes honed in on Dean and his grin widened, his forked tongue poking out between fangs. His eyes were red. "Dean. Have you by chance seen my baby brother? He's uh, about yeah high? Looks like a drowned puppy? Last I saw, he had this giant hole in my chance? You seen him by chance?"

Dean snarled. "Why don't you look for yourself?"

Lucifer's grin twitched. He turned around slowly, where Castiel stood, angel blade in hand. "Hello," Cas said.

Lucifer blinked. His mouth stayed open. "How. . .?"

Cas shrugged. His angel blade glinted against the moonlight. "I guess you'll just have to try harder next time."

Lucifer turned back to Dean. "Well, I guess it means I just to get to stab him again in front of you. You gonna scream like last time?" Lucifer cocked his head slightly. "I know you're back there, son. Come on out."

Jack slowly appeared from behind one of the trees.

"Hi, son."

"Don't call me that."

"Come on." Lucifer reached out his hand. "You and me. We can take over this pitiful planet. Start anew. Start from scratch, with our own creations." Lucifer curled his hand into a fist. "Together, we'll be gods."

Jack shook his head. "I don't want to be a god," he said, cautiously stepping forward.

Lucifer huffed. "Don't tell me these lunatics got into your head. You're better than they are. They are ants. Vermin. Nothing more than parasites, scurrying about. You and me? We're powerful. We're made to be powerful, made to rule. Don't you think it's fitting? Father and son?"

Jack shook his head. "You're not my father. Not my real father."

Lucifer's face fell further. "Excuse me?"

"My mother told me that my father would protect me. You may have been responsible for my birth, but you are not my father."

Jack's eyes flicked over to Castiel. Dean inhaled sharply.

Lucifer turned back to Cas. "Change of plans. I'm going to kill you last, long, and slow."

He moved towards Cas.

Dean fired his gun. It got Lucifer right in the shoulder. He touched the wound, but there wasn't even any blood. His blood red eyes darkened and he snarled; Dean swore he saw horns on top of Lucifer's head.

Dean swallowed and glanced back to Jack. "First rule, kid: Don't let the bad guys start monologuing." He sighed, hand shaking. The gun suddenly seemed too heavy. "Run!"

They all went in different directions. Dean one way, Sam the other; Cas up, Mary down. Jack stood dead center, still walking slowly towards Lucifer, calm and focused.

Lucifer flicked his wrist and Dean went flying into a tree. His teeth rattled in his skull.

"Mary, there you are! I was wondering where you went off too!" Lucifer moved his wrist again, and Mary came towards him, dragged across the ground. She scrambled, digging her nails into the earth, and it did nothing. Lucifer pulled her by the back of her collar to her feet. She swung, managing to get him in the neck. He hissed, and she swung again, clocking him in the nose. Blood pooled down his face, but he still kept smiling. He licked away the blood and tossed Mary back to the ground and put his foot on her spine. She screamed.

"Get away from her," Castiel said, slashing with his angel blade. Lucifer growled and got off Mary, all attention set onto Cas.

Dean's heart froze in his chest.

"You," Lucifer snarled, grabbing Cas by his collar and slamming him into the ground, once, twice, three times. "What makes _you_ so special?" He lifted Cas up off the ground. Cas tried attacking with his angel blade, but he was human now, and everything that came with it: the slower reflexes, the sensitivity to pain, needing to breathe. He couldn't reach Lucifer with it.

" _I_ loved Him," Lucifer continued. "More than anything. Even more than my brothers. And what do I get?" Lucifer dropped Castiel and stomped on him. "Ten." Stomp. "Thousand." Stomp. " _Years_ in the Cage!"

Mary was slowly crawling towards Cas, but Lucifer didn't even spare her a glance; a snap of his fingers and she was thrown dozens of feet back. Dean tried to find his feet, but he was so dizzy he couldn't stand. Where was Jack? And Sam?

"And _you_ ," Lucifer snarled. " _You_ betray all of us. Heaven, angels, God. You side with these degenerates, and what do you get? Oh, you get brought back to life, again, and again, and again! You chose these parasites over Heaven, over God, and you get rewarded?" Lucifer knelt down and took Cas's chin in his hands. Cas had a black eye and a split lip, and that was just what Dean could see. "Tell me, Castiel? Where is the justice? The mercy? And now, it's not bad enough that you've stolen from me my Father's love. No. Now you've had to steal my son from me too? It's not fair."

"I'm not your son," Jack said, jumping down from a large tree, right behind Lucifer. He latched onto Lucifer's back, legs around his chest, arms around his neck, and managed to bring Lucifer down to the ground with a giant crash that made leaves fall to the earth.

Dean army crawled to Cas while Lucifer and Jack wrestled on the ground.

"Hey, hey, hey," Dean said, reaching out. "You okay?"

Cas spat a glob a blood onto the grass. "Fine," he said, breath ragged. "The others?"

Dean looked up. Mary was hurt, but alive. He finally spotted Sam, circling the perimeter of the graveyard—he was ducking behind trees, and gravestones, and that was why Dean hadn't seen him earlier. Dean was glad Sam wasn't capturing Lucifer's attention, but he still had no idea he was doing. He seemed to be running around like a maniac.

"They're fine," Dean said.

"He's toying with us," Cas said, wincing. Dean balked. Shit, shit, shit—what if Cas had internal injuries? Damn it, he still wasn't recovered from the stabbing, what the hell was Dean thinking, dragging Cas into a fight to the death with Lucifer?

"Anytime now, Jack," Dean said.

Jack was kicking and clawing like an animal, growling, and but all Dean could focus on what the battle of yellow and red eyes that stood out in the dark, as though they were their own figures not attached to any bodies.

"Son, let's not do this," Lucifer said, throwing a punch at Jack. "You're making a mistake. They are not the people to join. You are better than them. More powerful than they can even begin to imagine. An angel's grace, and a human soul—combined. You are made to rule, and they should be cowering at your feet. At our feet."

Jack didn't reply. He snarled, punching Lucifer in the face, and managing to throw Lucifer off of him.

Lucifer roared. Lightning flashed in the sky, and against the trees and stones, Dean saw the shadows of two, giant wings, spanning what had to be over thirty feet in total. He could make out individual feathers, and some of them had to be taller than even Sam. Lucifer got to his feet, the wings flaring up behind him, before they disappeared with the lightning.

Dean helped Cas into a sitting position, and propped him up against a head stone. He took the angel blade, easily sliding it from Cas's grip.

"Dean, wait—"

"Stay there," Dean said, rushing towards Lucifer. He stabbed it straight through Lucifer's throat, all the way. Lucifer lurched, and then he chuckled. He craned his neck as far as it would go, enough so that Dean could see the point of the blade sticking out through Lucifer's trachea. Dean gulped, let go, and stepped back. Lucifer reached behind him and pulled the blade out. It made a hideous squelching noise. He dropped it on the ground. Blood shot out the wound like a fire hose.

"You never learn, do you Dean?" Lucifer snarled, stepping forward, matching each one of Dean's steps back. His voice was muddled by the blood. "I'd find your bravery honorable if you weren't so stupid." With each step Lucifer made, the grass underneath his feet sizzled and died, leaving behind black, sooty footprints.

Jack came racing forward, hands glowing, running towards Lucifer. He put a hand on top of Lucifer's head, but nothing happened. Jack's face fell.

"Unbelievable," Lucifer said, shaking his head. "My own son, trying to kill me." He sighed. "Kids. So ungrateful." He snapped his fingers and Jack was flung overhead, landing right next to Cas with a horrendous thud that made the ground vibrate.

"Jack," Dean heard Cas say.

Lucifer smacked his lips. "Okay. That's enough time for play, I think. This has been fun and all, but, well. I really hate your guts, and I can't think of a better place to spread them." He looked over Dean's shoulder, towards Cas. "This is what you chose, Castiel. And you get a front row seat to seeing it destroyed."

"I don't think so," Sam said, panting. Everyone turned to face him. Sam was grinning, open lighter in his hand, and he dropped it. The flames went up, encircling Lucifer. Lucifer looked at the fire with nothing more than annoyance. He tsked and rolled his eyes.

"Sam. Really? You know this won't hold me for long."

"It doesn't need to hold you for long," Sam said, grinning devilishly, that same manic sheen in his eyes he used to get when he was hopped up on demon blood. "It just needs to hold you for long enough." Sam revealed a bloody hand, and Dean finally saw it. All over the gravestones, Sam had marked the banishing sigil.

"Tell me, Lucifer," Sam continued. "That fire holds you, keeps you trapped. But the sigil blows you away. So where do you go when you can't go anywhere?"

For the first time, Lucifer's bravado fell, and he looked scared. He shook his head, but the façade was over. "Really, Sam?" Blood still dripped out his throat.

Already the flames were starting to die out, getting shorter, less bright.

 _Hurry this up, Sam_ , Dean thought.

"I'm not the only angel here, you know," Lucifer said, turning to Jack and Cas. "Blow me away, you'll blow them away too. And Castiel ain't looking too good. I mean, if you wanna kill him, be my guest. But Deano here," Lucifer clicked his tongue.

"If only I were an angel," Cas said, curled protectively over Jack.

Lucifer's grin fell. "You sure you're not? No doubt at all, that there's not even the teenest, tiniest bit of angel juice in you, kid? Because if there is-"

Cas held his head high. He looked to Dean. And then to Sam. The flames were almost completely dead. "Not even a speck," he said, throwing his entire body over Jack.

Sam slammed his hand over the banishing sigil.


	31. Chapter 31

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The flames shot up high, yards and yards, high. They almost seemed to touch the sky, and the heat was so intense, Dean covered his eyes and backed away, tripping over something, and landing hard on his ass. It lasted for a long time, until the flames seemed to die down naturally.

Lucifer wasn't there. But across the graveyard was the ashy imprint of giant wings. Dean's heart was beating against his chest.

Dean looked to Sam. Sam looked just as surprised, blood still dripping from his hand onto the grass. Dean shakily stood to his feet. "Holy shit," Dean said.

"Holy shit," Sam said.

"Sam. Sam, you did it." Dean grinned so wide it hurt. He raced towards his brother, latching on, and hugged Sam tight.

"I did it," Sam said in disbelief. "I killed Lucifer."

Sam killed Lucifer. Not Jack. Not God. Just Sam. Dean's knees buckled in jubilation. Lucifer was dead, Lucifer was dead, they won. They _won_.

"He's dead," Dean said, giddy like a schoolchild, the urge to jump up and down boiling deep in his gut. Lucifer was dead, and they didn't need any special weapon to kill him. Just Sam's genius brain. "This is. . ." Dean couldn't even put into words what he felt. Sam killed Satan. Sam and his beautiful, wonderful, gigantic genius brain.

"Guys," Mary said. Her voice wasn't excited or giddy, though. It was stern, worried. Dean and Sam broke and turned, and their grins immediately died.

Cas was lying on his side. Blood was coming out of his mouth. His eyes weren't open.

"Cas!" Dean raced to him, falling to his knees and skidding the rest of the way. Sam's heavy footsteps were behind him. Jack and Mary were both knelt beside him "Cas?" Dean put a hand on Cas's shoulder and shook him. He got no response. He shook him harder, yelling loudly; blood still trickled out his mouth.

"What's going on?" Sam said, panicked. His voice seemed far away. Dean was honing in on Cas, and only Cas. No. No. This couldn't be happening. This could not be happening.

Jack leered over Cas. He pulled open Cas's jacket and peeled up his shirt. His abdomen was horrifically bruised—Dean recognized it immediately, and he felt a knot of shame that he knew it from fucking _Doctor Sexy_ of all things. Grey Turner's sign. It was like someone had just painted a streak of black across Cas's abdomen.

"He's bleeding," Jack said. Dean bit his tongue, resisted the urge to scream _No shit_. This was bad. This was bad, bad, bad—Cas was unconscious, still bleeding out the mouth, pale as a sheet. There wouldn't be time to call an ambulance.

Dean looked at Jack. "You gotta do something," he pleaded, voice cracking. "Please."

Jack flinched and looked at his hands. They were trembling. He looked at Dean, his yellow eyes wide, childlike and full of fear. "I—I don't know how."

"Yes you do," Dean said. "I was there. He taught you. You did it."

"An apple is different than—than—I could, I could—"

"You need to save him." Dean was openly crying now, unashamed, as he plead. "Please."

"Jack," Sam said. "You gotta try. Okay. See that? He is going to die if you don't do something now."

Jack bit his lip, hesitated for a second, and then he put his hands on Cas's stomach. He closed his eyes. His hands began to glow. Dean sat there, hands on Cas, watching, watching. Jack began to sweat, eyes clenched hard. His lips were moving, but no sound was coming out.

Dean leaned his head forward, his lips nearly pressed against Cas's. "C'mon, c'mon," he whispered. "You don't get to do this to me, you bastard. You son of a bitch. You hear me? You're not done fighting yet. Not when we've finally won."

If Cas died, the victory would be hollow; not a victory at all.

Dean was too afraid to say anything, afraid to say anything to Jack, afraid to look at the wound. Dean trembled and swallowed. Cas still had a pulse. He could feel it under his fingertips. It was thready, but it was there, and Dean focused on that. He counted the beats and tried not to think about whether Cas's heart rate was high or low—just that it was there.

Cas began to feel very warm. Not a feverish warm. A hot bath in the middle of winter warm. Nice, soothing. Dean inhaled slowly and slowly he managed to turn his eyes towards Jack. His hands were glowing. Cas's skin was glowing too.

Jack was sweating profusely now. He was shivering. But the glowing reached across Cas's skin, and slowly began to erase the dark, black bruising. In a few more seconds, it was gone completely.

Cas's eyes opened. He coughed and tried to sit up, more blood dropping down his chin. Dean didn't care. He threw himself around Cas's neck. Jack let go, gasping for breath, clutching at his chest.

Cas blinked sluggishly. "What?"

"Oh my god," Dean said. "You son of a bitch. You bastard. I oughta kick your ass for scaring me like that."

"Sorry?" Cas mumbled.

"Jack, you okay?" Mary asked softly, touching Jack's shoulder. Mary's face was bruised too. Her lip was split. Blood matted her hair. But she was alive.

Jack nodded. "Sorry," he said. "I'd do you too, but. . ."

Mary smiled. "It's okay. I've had much worse. I'll live. You rest."

Dean looked at Jack over Cas's head. _Thank you_ , he mouthed.

Jack smiled shyly at him.

.

.

.

"This is nice," Mary said, putting more sunscreen on.

Dean clicked his tongue in agreement. "Been wanting to do this for years."

The sun was bright and warm, and just a few yards away the sounds of the ocean churning softly relaxed something inside him deeply buried. Around him he could hear the scurrying and shrill cries of children playing.

"Can't believe I finally get to do this." Dean took off his sunglasses. He had to squint his eyes at first to let them adjust to the sun. He saw Sam, Cas, and Jack in the ocean. Sam was trying to start a splash fight. Dean snorted when Jack splashed him right back with a small tidal wave of water that smacked him straight in the face.

"Can't believe the kid is so stupid to do something like that," Dean said.

"They're having fun," Mary said.

"He's gonna get his ass kicked."

"Well, maybe you should get in and help him."

"You kidding? This is too much fun."

Cas and Jack began to team up on Sam—and for once, Dean could finally, truly enjoy the peace.

They were done. Really done. They hadn't been on a hunt in months—not since they finally killed Lucifer. They'd been spending the time doing things Dean had always wanted to do with his family. They ate dinners together. Watched movies. Went on actual road trips. Dean finally got to see the Grand Canyon. The Petrified forest. Mount Rushmore.

They finally felt like a family. Him, Sam, Cas, Mom, and even Jack soon fit in, becoming a piece Dean didn't know they were missing. Dean couldn't believe it took him so long to see it. Jack had never been Lucifer's kid.

He's been Cas's.

Ever since that night at the Heaven Gate, Cas was Jack's father—Jack chose Cas to be his father.

And Jack opened Cas up in ways not even Dean had seen before. Dean would often wake up in the earlier morning hours alone, only to find Cas and Jack sitting in the family room, talking.

And Dean himself had never been happier than he was now, with Cas.

He said to Cas one night, as they lay in bed, "I can't believe this is something we could've had all along."

"I don't think so," Cas said.

"Huh?"

"I don't think this is something we could've had at any point previously. We've both been, well, stubborn in our own ways."

"Still," Dean said, licking his lips. "Sucks it took you almost dying for me to pull my head out of my ass."

Cas had just smiled and leaned forward and kissed Dean.

"I'm glad you're here," Dean said, turning to Mary. She'd been vital to their stopping Lucifer too. She helped keep Lucifer distracted so Sam could do his magic finger painting.

And Sam—ever since the night in Stull, Sam had been happier than Dean had seen him in a long time. Years. A weight was lifted off Sam's shoulder that night, and Dean hoped that it would never, ever return.

"Me too," Mary said, smiling.

"Oh, that is so not fair!" Sam screamed, as Cas and Jack splashed at Sam from different sides.

His family was finally together. Complete and unbroken; safe and unharmed.

Dean watched with a grin as Sam got his butt kicked for a few more moments before he sighed forlornly and stood.

"Well, I better go help him out, I guess," he said.

Mary smiled cheekily and waved. "Don't forget to re-apply sunscreen."

Dean grinned and raced into the water, the sand nearly burning his feet.

"'Bout time you got here," Sam said, hair sticking to his face, eyes irritated with the salty sea air.

Dean shrugged. "What? Mister Satan Slayer can't handle a simple splash fight?"

"They're ruthless," Sam hissed.

"I like the ocean," Jack said, grinning and submerging his face under the water. He came back up shortly. "There are so many fish around us!"

"Keep an eye out for Jaws, and we'll be fine," Dean said. He cracked his knuckles and stood beside Sam. "Okay, who's ready?"

"This really is an unfair fight," Cas said. "You and Sam should give up now."

Oh hell no. "Those are fighting words, Cas."

"Bring it on," Jack said, sticking out his tongue. Cas rolled his eyes and glared at Dean.

"You've been a horrible influence," Cas said.

Dean winked.

"Gross," Sam said. He shook his head, spraying water around like a dog. "Anyway. Let's go."

They stayed out in the water all afternoon, until the sun moved from the center of the sky until it began to disappear until the horizon. Their skin was soggy and wrinkled and ached with sunburn.

They went back to their hotel room and ate pizza for dinner while they marathoned movies. Every minute movement hurt.

"I told you to put on sunscreen," Mary chastised gently. She shook her head. "Can't believe all of you got sunburned." But she smiled gently, and Cas rubbed aloe onto Dean's skin.

"I love you," Dean whispered that night as they lay in bed.

"I know," Cas said, grinning knowingly.

Dean punched him. "Asshole."

Cas just kept smiling.

.

.

.

 _Come here my child_

Castiel woke slowly. The voice spoke again. He blinked, eyes adjusting to the darkness. Dean was beside him, deep in slumber. He smacked his lips and mumbled something nonsensical.

 _Castiel._

Castiel pushed himself off the bed, frowning. The voice was calming. It felt safe. He pushed the covers off him, and slowly slide out of bed, careful not to disturb Dean. Dean would probably be upset with him later, but for some reason, Castiel was not fearful. He left his room, careful still as he walked down the hallway in socked feet to not wake Sam or Mary.

Jack was awake, though, standing in front of the large staircase, staring quizzically.

"You heard that?" Castiel asked.

Jack nodded. "It knew my name."

Castiel bit his lip. Castiel walked to the large table and grabbed the gun Dean kept underneath. Just in case. He went back to the staircase.

"Stay behind me," he said as he made his way up the stairs. Jack followed closely. Castiel opened the large door slowly.

Chuck was there, hands in his pockets, smiling. "Hi, boys."

Castiel blinked. "Father?"

"You're God?" Jack asked.

Chuck smiled. "We have a lot to talk about."

Castiel turned back to Jack. Then he looked at God. "I guess we do."

"How 'bout it?" Chuck said, tilting his head towards the outside. "Just right out here?"

Castiel thought about it. "Only a few minutes," he said, trying to control the swell in his throat. After all this time, his father was finally talking to him. Castiel had spent his entire life wishing he could met his father—and then God finally appeared, and He didn't bother with Castiel at all.

Now, though, Castiel didn't truly want to speak with his father. It wasn't something he needed anymore.

Chuck grinned.

"I'm not doing this for you," Castiel said. "I'm doing it for him."

Jack deserved at least a chance to meet and speak with God. Castiel wouldn't take that away from him.

Chuck cleared his throat. "Fair enough." He stuck out his hand.

Castiel ignored it. Chuck pulled it back slowly. Castiel reached behind him and took Jack's hand. They followed Chuck just outside the bunker door. They would be back soon.

 _Do not stand at my grave and cry. I am not there. I did not die._

-Mary Elizabeth Frye


	32. Epilogue

He approached Michael slowly. Michael stared at the corpse for a long, long time.

"What do you want, Gabriel?" Michael said without turning around. He was white-knuckling the Lance.

"What are you going to do now?" Gabriel asked. He couldn't see his brother's body from this point; it was obscured by Michael's form. However, he could see the ashy wing prints.

Michael turned around slowly. "Whatever do you mean?"

Gabriel shrugged. "Luci's dead, but dad's still not back."

Michael huffed and turned back around. "Do you really believe that's what this was about?"

Gabriel blinked. "What?"

"I knew Father wasn't going to return. Face it, Gabriel. He's not ever going to return."

"So what? This—this was just a dick swinging contest then?"

"Always with the vulgarities."

Gabriel laughed. "This was just one big pissing match—and you still lost. You pathetic son of a bitch. You didn't even get to kill him." Gabriel stepped forward. "Bet that smarts a bit."

Michael hummed. "There's nothing left for us here, brother."

"Yeah, thanks to you. You destroyed this place for nothing."

Michael turned around and walked towards Gabriel. "This place was always nothing."

"And the people that've died because of your stupid, pathetic war?"

"What of them?"

Gabriel thought of Bobby. His bravery. His sacrifice. He wondered what that Other World was like. If it really was a better place than here. He hoped Mary made it home, back to her sons.

But this—this was his home. And he couldn't abandon it again.

"You better leave," Gabriel said.

"I was planning to. There is nothing left for us here. I've rallied the troops, so to speak, on both sides."

Gabriel felt like he'd been punched in the chest. "You're going to close the Gates."

"Earth was meant to be nothing more than the final battlefield. And the battle's done."

Gabriel snorted. Then he bit his lip and thought about it. "I think that's a great idea."

Michael smirked. "Which realm will you find yourself in? Heaven or Hell?"

"I get a choice?"

"I entertained the idea of killing all of those angels who sided with Lucifer. But enough of our kind has died."

"You would know. You did most of the killing."

"Bite your tongue, boy."

Gabriel just shook his head. "Whatever. You don't have to worry about me. I'm not going to be behind either Gate."

"You're going to stay here?"

"Maybe," Gabriel shrugged. "Maybe I'll find somewhere else. But being stuck in Heaven with your guys forever sure sounds like Hell to me."

Michael sneered. "Always a traitor."

"Whatever makes you feel better."

They stared at one another. After several long, tense moments, Michael shook his head and looked away.

"Goodbye, Michael."

Michael flew away, his wings flapping loudly, kicking up dirt and sand in all directions.

Gabriel began to walk. He observed. He thought.

With the angels and demons both locked away—maybe this World did still have a chance.

After several days of walking, he heard a small noise. A cry. Behind one of the giant metallic pillars sat a little girl, knees to her chest, hair stuck to her face, crying. Gabriel knelt down.

"Hi," he said softly. "It's okay. Don't be afraid. I won't hurt you."

She looked at him cautiously. She was emaciated and filthy.

"My name is Gabriel. I'm here to help."

"Help?

"Yeah. Where are your parents?"

She bit her lip. Gabriel sighed.

"What's your name?"

"I don't know."

Gabriel scooted closer. "How 'bout we pick a name then?"

"I don't know any."

Gabriel only had to think for a moment. "How about Mary?"

The girl shrugged.

"Hi, Mary." Gabriel reached out slowly. She watched his hand like it was a viper. Gabriel touched her hand, though, and she did not flinch. He healed her bruises and scrapes. She stared at him in awe.

"Now," Gabriel smacked his lips and grinned. "How about we find you some food?"

FIN


End file.
